. 


i 


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A  ROYCROFT 
ANTHOLOGY 


Selected  and  Edited  by 

JOHN    T.    HOYLE 

Editor  of  THE  FRA  Magazine 


THE  ROYCROFTERS 

East  Aurora,  N.  Y. 

MCMXVII 


Copyright,  1917 
By  The  Roycrofters 


List  of  Authors 


Stack 
ftnne* 


ADD1SON,  JOSEPH 

Liberty 135 

ADLER,   FELIX 

The  City  of  the  Light 25 

ANDREWS,  GEORGE  LAWRENCE 

Winter    Wind 17 

Harvest! 26 

ARMSTRONG,  C.  L. 

Just  Don'tl 1$ 

BAILEY,  PHILIP  JAMES 

We  Live  in  Deeds 70 

BANN,  FREDERIC 

When  God  Nod* US 

BARBAULD,  ANNA   LETITIA 

Life!  we  're  been  long  together 47 

BARTON,  FRANCES  V. 

To  Joaguin  Miller,  the  Poet  of 
The  Eights 181 

BEEBE,  GEORGE 

War 71 

The   Ties  Fraternal 103 

Good-Night,  Daddy! 117 

BELL,  JEROME  B. 

Mystery 27 

BENT,  GEORGE  P. 

The  Millionaire 91 

BISHOP  OF  EXETER 

Give  Ut  Men! 50 

BOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  IF. 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes 155 

BOURNE,  HUMPHREY  M. 

Victory 11 

BRAMLEYKITE 

Can  You  Blame  Him? 38 

BREMER,  CORA 

Night  and  Waning  Day 24 

The    Sea 93 

The    Butterfly 118 

BROOKE,  RUPERT 

The  Great  Lover 49 

BROOKS,  FRED  EMERSON 

Pickett'i  Charge 78 

BROWN,  MAURICE  R. 

Aurora  Borealis 76 

BROWNE,  IRVING 

A  Boy  and  a  Girl 77 


BROWNING,  ROBERT 

My   Star 11,6 

BURNS,   ROBERT 

The  True  Pathos 109 

BURTON,  HELENA  BINGHAM 

Hope! 168 

BURTON,   RICHARD 

A  viewless  thing  is  the  wind 49 

BYRON,  LORD 

Stars 107 

CARTER,  JOHN 

Prison  Song 82 

CHAPPELL,  HENRY 

The  Day 88 

CHASE,  JOSEPH  E. 

At  the  Grave  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. .  89 

CLARK,   ADELBERT 

Myrrh 75 

The  Old  House  on  the  Hill 84 

CLARKE,   JOSEPH  I.   C. 

The  Peaks  of  the  Ideal 90 

CONRAD,  JOHN  LEONARD 

Our  Hope S3 

COOPER,   WILLIAM  COLBY 

The  Feller  With  the  Hoe 74 

COX,  KEN  YON 

Work  thou  for  pleasure 161 

CRANE,    STEPHEN 

The  Black  Riders $6 

The  Maniac's  Complaint 73 

Each  Small  Gleam  Was  a  Voice. .  86 
The  Chatter  of  a  Death-Demon. .  .108 

CRAWFORD,  CAPT.  JACK 

A  New-Year  Poem 136 

The   Boomerang 163 

For  Ninety   Years 

CROSBY,    ERNEST 
Now  I  Understand 

Education 51 

The  Ladder  of  Truth 72 

Life  and  Death 87 

"  Morituri  Salutamus  " 

Truth 137 

The  Way  and  the  End 146 


DARLING,    ERIC    A. 

Phyllis />7 

Spread    Out! 94 

DAVIS,  EDWARDS 

A  Dream  of  the  Death  of  God.... ISO 

DAW  SOX,  WILLIAM  J. 

My  Wife 108 

DICKSON,  WILLIAM  BRADFORD 

An  Appeal %% 

DOLE,  NATHAN  HASKELL 

Pochades 52 

DOOLITTLE,  FRANK  HENRY 

Christmastide 96 

DOW  SON,  ERNEST 

Cynara 95 

DRUMMOND,  DR.  W.  II. 

Leetle  Bateese 54 


EDDY,    WILLIAM   H. 

Opportunity 6S 

EDUOLM,  CHARLTON  LAWRENCE 

Wings 122 

EHRMANN,  MAX 

Who  First  Draw  Sword HO 

ELLIOTT,  EBENEZER 

When  Wilt  Thou  Sane  the  People?  56 
EMERSON,  MARIE  LOUISE 

Rosemother 179 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 

0  friend,  my  bosom  said 59 

FERGUSON,   ALBERT 

More  Kindness  Needed 145 

FERG  USON,    NA  TH  A  N1EL 

Elbert  Hubbard 90 

Stenogs 98 

When  Kreisler  Played HI 

A  Prayer H8 

FISCHER,  JACOB 

The  Lady  Poverty 191 

FLETCHER,  J. 

Man  His  Own  Star , 83 

FOSS,  SAM  WALTER 

The  House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road 


GRIFFITH,    WILLIAM 

Rhymes  in  Time  of  Agitation  .....  138 
GUNDELFINGER,  GEORGE  F. 

The    Lawn-Mower  ..............  1S1 

HAGGARD,  DAVID  DILLARD 

Where  Art  Thou,  God?  ...........  68 

HASTINGS,    MILO 

Immortality  of  Germ-Plasm  ......   IIS 

HAWTHORNE,  JULIAN 

Punishment  ....................  30 

HAYES,  EDNAH  P.  (CLARKE) 

The  Mockingbird  ...............   14 

HENDRICKS,  T.  N. 

The    Bachelor  ..................  85 

HERRICK,  ROBERT 

Alms..:  ......................  87 

HINES,  EARLE  REMINGTON 

The  Call  of  the  Footlights  ........  144 

"  Stevie  "  Crane  ................  H7 

HODGES,  LEIGH  MITCHELL 

"  Vive   La   France  "  ............  19  4 

HOOD,    THOMAS 

The  Departure  of  Summer  .......  193 

HOYLE,    DAVID 

Destiny  .......................  59 

HYDE,   HOMER 

Little  Mites  and  the  Almighty  .....  m 

INGALLS,  JOHN  J. 

Opportunity  ....................  62 

INGHAM,  JOHN  HALL 

Genesis  .......................  4* 


GLYNN,    JOHN    FRANCIS 

The  Prisoner's  Lament 135 

GRIFFIN,    BARTHOLOMEW    F. 

Off  Kintale 

The  Army  of  Bleeding  Feet 190 


JEFFERSON,    JOSEPH 

Immortality  ....................   SO 

JOHNSON,  RICHARD  L. 

Abraham  Lincoln  ...............  150 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES 

The  Day  of  the  Lord  .............  154 

KINNE,  ORLANDO  W. 

The  Supreme  Manifesto  .........  156 

KINSELL,  8.    TYSON 

The    Convict  ...................  159 

Existence  Eternal 
KISER,   S.   E. 

I  Will  ........................  18 

KITTREDGE,  HERMAN  E. 

Good-Bye  ......................   16 

By  the  Forest  ..................  175 


V 

h 


KLEISER,  GRENVILLE 

Laugh  It  Of 185 

LANDON,  G.  WARREN 

En   Avant 19 

LAN  DOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE 

Leaf  After  Leaf  Drops  Of S6 

LANIER,   SIDNEY 

The  Mockingbird 177 

LAW,  LAURA  RAITZ 

Imprint 14 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD 

Ad  Librot 15 

Illusion 63 

The  Cry  of  the  Little  Peoples 100 

Back  to  the  Mother:  A  Prayer. . .  .158 

LEIBFREED,  EDWIN 

Persevera  Ad  Victoriam 153 

LEISER,  JOSEPH 

Consolation 113 

Defeat 157 

LENTZ,  KATE  ALEXANDER 

To  a  Clock 99 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W. 

Peace 64 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached 
and   kept 173 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

Candor 147 

LUEDY,  ARTHUR  E. 

A  Sonnet 171 

MC  CALEB,   W.    F. 

Life's  Mysteries 149 

Mary  Magdalen 189 

MCCREARY^J.  L. 

There  Is  No  Death 164 

MAC  DONALD,  ARTHUR  ROYCE 
Morning 755 

MACKINTOSH,  CHARLES  HENRY 
The  Scientist  Speaks 97 

MC  LEOD,  FIONA 

The  Prayer  of  Women 174 

M ALONE,  WALTER 

The  Agnostic's  Creed 126 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN 

Brotherhood 128 

MARTINEAU,  HARRIET 

Equality 130 


MARTIN,    WILLIAM   HAROLD 

The  Sea 129 

MASON,  HARRISON  D. 

Abraham  Lincoln  at  Gettysburg. .  .115 
At  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  Grave.  125 

MAXWELL,  WILLIAM  HUNTER 
Fast  Asleep 55 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN 

To  the  Jersey  Lily 114 

My  Brave  World-Builders 133 

The  California  Poppy 137 

Columbus 180 

MILLER,  JOSEPH  DANA 

The  Hymn  of  Hate 124 1 

MONTAGUE,  JAMES  J. 

The  Peasant  Soldier 166 

MOORE,    THOMAS 

Memory  and  Hope 128 

MORRISON,    GEORGE.  GRANT 

Belgium 44 

MURDOCK,  MILTON 

A  May  Idyl 39 

The  King's  Ride 162 

NAYLOR,  JAMES  BALL 

The  Law  of  Life 42 

The  Eternal  Quest 46 

NELSON,  CARL 

The  Embryo  Citizen 41 

Summer 119 

Sing  Him  to  Sleep 192 

NELSON,  FREDERIC  COOKE 

Onions 187 

NEW  BOLT,  HENRY 

Play  the  Game! 45 

NORDQUIST,  JOHN   E. 

Living    Death 43 

NO  YES,  ALFRED 

A  Prayer  in  Time  of  War 169 

ORR,  HUGH  ROBERT 

Worship : .  .167 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all! . .  58 
PORTER,  EDWARD 

Envy 15 

PUTNAM,  FRANK 

Ballade  of  Justice 40 

QUINN,  SAMUEL 

The  Sun  Speaks 1S3 


REPS,  PAUL 

The    Fire 13!, 

ROlilllNS,   FRANK 

Church     KMs 

ROONEY,   JOHN   JEROME 
A  Beam  of  Light 


.lie 


SAPIR,   EDWARD 

Epitaph  of  a  Philosopher US 

SAXE,  HENRY  S. 

Tolstoy 118 

SCHLEIF,   OSCAR 

Space 186 

SCHWARTZ,  MARTHA  C. 

Rowena 60 

SCOLLARD,    CLINTON 

Song  of  the  Ships 36 

SERCOMBE,  PARKER  H. 

Heroes  of  the  Home 39 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM 

Reputation HO 

SHELLEY,   PERCY  BYSSHE 

Death  and  Sleep 129 

The    Invitation 183 

SICKELS,  DAVID  BANKS 

What  Would  He  Say? 32 

SLATER,  MARY  WHITE 

Europe— 1914 SS 

SMALLWEED,  EDWIN 

The   Drum-Beat 31 

SMITH,    WILLIAM   HAW  LEY 

The  Cry  of  the  Crammers 34 

STEVENS,  GEORGE  W. 

Poverty 188 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  LOUIS 

Requiem 149 

If  This  Were  Faith! 170 

STILWELL,  ARTHUR  EDWARD 

Electricity S3 

SWAIN,  JOHN  D. 

In  Re   Villon 110 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES 
Spring 66 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON 

The  Days  That  Are  To  Be 109 

TALLMAN,  MRS.  A.  J. 

Soldiers'  Facet 114 

TAYLOR,  BERT  LETSON 

The  Great  Obsession 104 


TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  LORD 

In  Scorn  of  Consequence 119 

TERRY,  EDWARD  H.  S. 

Kinship 35 

0  God  of  Wrath 67 

Fruition 102 

G.  Bernard  Shaw 131 

THOMAS,  CORAL 

Martial  Music 103 

THOMPSON,  WILL  H. 

High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 68 

THOMSON,  JAMES 

Freedom  of  Nature 106 

TRAMS,   A.   FRANCIS 

Consecration W 

TRIPPET,  OSCAR  A. 

The  Call  of  the  Vast 65 

VAN  DYKE,    HENRY 

My   Work 72 

WAKEMAN,  THADDEUS  B. 

A    Prayer 71 

WATERMAN,  NIXON 

A  rose  to  the  living 163 

WELLS,  JOHN  D. 

An  Old  Sayin   of  Mother's 132 

WEST,  JAMES  HARCOURT 

Nature's   Foundlings 106 

WHITE,  JOSEPH  BLANCO 

Light  and  Life 107 

WHITMAN,  WALT 

The  City  Invincible 38 

With  All  Thy  Gifts 81 

Afoot  and  light-hearted  I  take  to 

the  open  road 130 

Dead  poets,  philosophers,  priests..  189 

WIGHTMAN,    RICHARD 

The    Daredevil 105 

WOOD,  CHESTER 

For    You 190 

The  Song  of  the  City 178 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up 82 

YOUNG,  JULIA  DITTO 

The  World  to  the  Poet 73 


ZEHLIMAN,   F.   M. 

The  Old  National  Road 176 


V 


•c? 


A  Roycroft 
Anthology 


We  get  no  good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even   to   a 

book, 
And  calculating  profits — so  much 

help 
By  so  much  reading.  It  is  rather 

when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves  and 

plunge 
Soul-forward,    headlong,    into     a 

book's  profound, 
Impassioned  for   its   beauty   and 

salt  of  truth — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good 

from  a  book. 
— Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 


Victory 

Humphrey  M.  Bourne 


TO  run  a  race  —  to  lose  —  and  yet  to  win, 
Still  striving  on  without  a  thought  of  rest; 

To  know  no  word  that  "failure  "  has  for  kin; 
To  always  feel  you  've  done  your  level  best. 

To  guard  the  gate  of  bitter  mood  when  Fate 

Shall  give  command  "  You  shall  "  or  "  You  shall  not  ", 
To  learn  to  labor  wisely  and  to  wait 

Till  comes  a  day  when  glows  the  iron  hot. 

To  take  in  hand  the  task  that  looks  too  hard; 

To  use  it  in  attaining  greater  heights; 
To  play  the  game  while  lasts  a  single  card; 

To  feel  that  fortune  favors  him  that  fights. 

To  have  the  force  to  be  to  thyself  true, 

And  know  that  thus  you  ne'er  can  play  the  knave; 
To  feel  howe'er  the  world  your  act  may  view, 

To  compromise  you  have  not  been  a  slave. 

To  look  a  humbling  fact  straight  in  the  eye, 
Nor  cast  about  for  words  to  fix  the  blame; 

To  bear  the  brunt  and  say  that  "  It  was  I  "  — 
To  know  that  all  you  do  can  not  bring  fame. 

To  make  your  job  a  real  part  of  your  life; 

To  feel  that  by  its  force  you  grow  and  rise; 
To  know  that  Victory  comes  through  honest  strife; 

That  happy  labor  is  itself  a  prize. 

Then,  looking  back,  you  'II  know  why  right  is  right; 

Nor  feel  false  pride  since  you  have  played  some  part; 
For  glory  comes  not  simply  of  the  fight, 

But  from  the  true  resolves  of  each  clean  heart. 


Immortality  of  Germ-Plasm 

Milo  Hastings 


THE  night-wind  moaned,  the  embers  breathed, 

Red  glowed  the  cavern  wall. 
With  dreaming  ears  the  caveman  heard 

His  fallen  rival's  call; 
Again  the  stress  of  combat  waged, 

And  taught  untutored  man 
That  in  the  filmy  night-born  world 

The  dead  may  live  again. 

In  Egypt's  man-made  mountains, 

The  royal  coffins  rust, 
And  the  sacred  cat  and  the  bovine  god 

Are  covered  with  mummied  dust; 
The  slave  will  become  the  master 

When  death  ends  the  weary  strife, 
And  the  toiling  ass  is  a  woman 

Who  sinned  in  a  former  life. 

The  willow  weeps  on  tear-stained  ground, 

The  cypress  points  the  sky, 
The  Christian  reads  the  marble  slab, 

Which  says  he  can  not  die; 
On  bricks  of  gold  his  ghost  shall  walk, 

Gold  borrowed  of  Israel 's  dream, 
For  hope,  as  faith,  calls  back  to  him 

Across  the  silent  stream. 

A  crystal  lens  in  a  brazen  frame 

Is  thrust  in  a  drop  of  slime, 
And  highest  mind  finds  lowest  life 

As  endless  a  chain  as  time; 


k 

D 


12 


Life  without  end,  cell  sprung  from  cell, 
Through  blood  and  brain  and  sperm, 

Of  man  who  manufactures  gods, 
Or  fish  or  frog  or  worm. 

And  if  the  soul  of  man  be  dust, 

The  human  form  but  clay, 
And  if  man  yearns  for  yet  more  life 

When  Time  his  scythe  shall  sway, 
Should  he,  whom  love  of  life  hath  called 

Immortal  art  to  ply, 
Imprint  his  fingers  in  the  sand 

Or  good  red  clay  supply? 

Though  Faith  looked  bright  amid  the  gloom 

Of  theologic  night, 
The  tungsten  film  of  fact  shall  dim 

Her  wick-and-tallow  light; 
To  him  who  knows  Faith's  work  is  done, 

Shall  Death  hail  from  afar, 
Unto  his  living,  throbbing  soul 

The  gates  shall  stand  ajar. 


Imprint 

Laura  Raitz  Law 


/  MARKED  ichere  malice  limned  her  subtle  way, 

And  etched  upon  a  face  that  God  made  fair 

Lines  that  nor  grief  nor  travail  could  trace  there; 
Only  the  rancor  of  a  bitter  fray. 
There,  with  the  stylus  of  ill-will,  each  day 

She  wrought  the  picture  with  much  cunning  care; 

With  pique  and  spite,  into  the  plastic  rare, 
She  sank  the  point  of  steel  and  graved  dismay. 
The  smiles  and  dimples  that  had  won  fair  praise, 

Melted  like  wax  before  the  heat  of  strife 
And  marred  the  record  of  those  happy  days. 

The  venom,  mordant,  deepened  the  keen  knife, 
And  left  a  gruesome  portrait  on  the  glaze, 

When  Death  took  the  impression  of  her  life. 


The  Mockingbird 


Ednah  Proctor  (Clarke)  Hayes 


LIST  to  that  bird!  His  song — what  poet  pens  it? 

Brigand  of  birds,  he  's  stolen  every  note! 
Prince  though  of  thieves — hark  I  how  the  rascal  spends  it ! 

Pours  the  whole  forest  from  one  tiny  throat ! 


Ad  Libros 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


WHEN  do  I  love  you  most,  sweet  books  of  mine  ? 

In  strenuous  morns  when  oer  your  leaves  I  pore, 

Austerely  bent  to  win  austerest  lore, 
Forgetting  how  the  dewy  meadows  shine, 
On  afternoons  when  honeysuckles  twine 

About  the  seat,  and  to  some  dreamy  shore 

Of  old  Romance,  where  lovers  evermore 
Keep  blissful  hours,  I  follow  at  your  sign? 

Yea!  ye  are  precious  then,  but  most  to  me 
Ere  lamplight  dawneth,  when  low  croons  the  fire 
To  whispering  twilight  in  my  little  room, 

And  eyes  read  not,  but  sitting  silently, 

I  feel  your  great  hearts  throbbing  deep  in  quire, 
And  hear  your  breathing  round  me  in  the  gloom. 


Envy 

Edward  Porter 

y 

A  BAREFOOT  boy,  his  face  with  health  aglow, 
Gazed  at  the  man  in  princely  motor-car, 
And  murmured,  "  I  wish  I  was  like  him!  " 

A  master  man,  his  face  with  ills  oercast, 
Gazed  at  the  boy  upon  the  rocky  road, 
And  muttered,  "  Were  I  again  like  him!  " 


Good-Bye 

Herman  E.  Kittredge 


GOOD-BYE,  old  house. 
Long  hast  thou  sheltered  me  and  mine, 

Through  storm  and  calm, 
In  toil  and  leisure,  joy  and  pain. 

Together  have  we  known — 
In  immeasurable,  changeless  time — 
The  measured,  changeful  hours. 
And  now, 

Alone, 

Forthgoing, 

I  linger  'neath  thy  sacred  roof— 

Within  thy  walls  bereft; 

And  in  thy  vacant  spaces  eloquent 

I  pause  with  reverent  head, 

In  mute  farewell. 

Good-bye,  old  house. 

When  first  I  came  to  thee, 

Through  ways  of  dream  now  dim, 

And  dimmer  growing  with  the  waning  years, 

The  Spring  companioned  me — 

With  gladdening  smile — 
Mid  startled  cries  and  soothed  murmurings — 
To  careless  tread  of  myriad  music — 

And  lavished  round  thy  door 
The  fragrant  petaled  emblems  of  her  soul. 

Now  sear  leaves  fall — 
Adrift  on  Autumn's  fitful  breath 

(With  twilight  failing, 
As  fails  mine  ebbing  spirit); 

And  as  I  finally  go  forth 
They  graze  my  form  in  whispering  caress — 


The  touch  and  voice  of  aged  friends 
In  last  farewell. 

For  on  each  leaf, 

From  shyly  budding  birth  to  withering  death, 

Is  writ  the  mystic  rune  of  universal  life : — 

"  In  changeless  time  is  naught  but  change." 

And  so, 

As  I  reluctantly  depart — 
A  sloth  for  mine  endearment — 

Affection's  falterer, — 

Irresolutely  glancing  back, — 

Thy  long-time  welcoming  path  and  smiling  casements — 

Thy  bliss-inviting  door — 
Grow  dim  and  fade  in  unillumed  dusk  and  tears. 

•8? 


Winter  Wind 

George  Lawrence  Andrews 


THE  winter  wind  goes  wailing  loud, 
And  whistles  sharp  and  keen; 

It  lifts  the  snow  up  like  a  cloud, 

And  earth  is  cold  and  gaunt  and  lean. 

Like  winter  wind  some  lives  there  are, 
Austere  souls  never  glad  or  warm, 

Who  know  no  summer  night,  no  star, 
The  green  of  life  or  friendship's  charm. 


/  Will 

S.  E.  Kiser 


/  WILL  start  anew  this  morning  with  a  higher,  fairer 

creed; 
I  will  cease  to  stand  complaining  of  my  ruthless  neighbor's 

greed; 

I  will  cease  to  sit  repining  while  my  duty's  call  is  clear, 
I  will  waste  no  moment  whining,  and  my  heart  shall  know 

no  fear. 

I  will  look  sometimes  about  me  for  the  things  that  merit 

praise; 
I  will  search  for  hidden  beauties  that  elude  the  grumbler's 

gaze; 

I  will  try  to  find  contentment  in  the  paths  that  I  must  tread, 
I  will  cease  to  have  resentment  when  another  moves  ahead. 

I  will  not  be  swayed  by  envy  when  my  rival's  strength  is 

shown; 

I  will  not  deny  his  merit,  but  I  'II  strive  to  prom  my  own; 
I  will  try  to  see  the  beauty  spread  before  me,  rain  or  shine  — 
/  will  cease  to  preach  your  duty  and  be  more  concerned  with 

mine. 


En  Avant 

C.  Warren  Landon 


THOUGH  the  path  of  life  be  stormy, 

Play  the  game. 

Troubled  waters  may  surround, 
Disappointments  will  confound : 
Yet,  though  heartaches  still  abound, 

Play  the  game. 

Do  you  think  your  life  a  failure? 

Play  the  game. 

Discords  all  the  songs  you  sing, 
Lost  your  grip  on  everything, 
Have  you  known  keen  sorrow's  sting? 

Play  the  game. 

Friends  there  be  with  love  unselfish, 

Playlthe  game. 
Beacons  they,  for  every  mile 
On  the  road;  so  you  can  smile — 
For  they  make  this  life  worth  while: 

Play  the  game. 


Immortality 

Joseph  Jefferson 


TWO  caterpillars  crawling  on  a  leaf, 
By  some  strange  accident  in  contact  came; 

Their  conversation,  passing  all  belief, 
Was  that  same  argument,  the  very  same, 

That  has  been  "  proed  and  conned,"  from  man  to  man; 

Yea,  ever  since  this  wondrous  world  began. 
The  ugly  creatures, 

Deaf  and  dumb  and  blind, 
Devoid  of  features 

That  adorn  mankind, 

Were  vain  enough,  in  dull  and  wordy  strife, 

To  speculate  upon  a  future  life. 

The  first  was  optimistic,  full  of  hope — 

The  second,  quite  dyspeptic,  seemed  to  mope. 

Said  number  one,  "  /  'm  sure  of  our  salvation." 

Said  number  two,  "  I  'm  sure  of  our  damnation. 
Our  ugly  forms  alone  would  seal  our  fates, 
And  bar  our  entrance  through  the  golden  gates. 

Suppose  that  death  should  take  us  unawares, 

How  could  we  climb  the  golden  stairs? 
If  maidens  shun  us  as  they  pass  by, 
Would  angels  bid  us  welcome  to  the  sky? 

I  wonder  what  great  crimes  we  have  committed, 

That  leave  us  so  forlorn,  so  unpitied? 
Perhaps  we  've  been  ungrateful,  unforgiving. 
'T  is  plain  to  me,  life  is  not  worth  the  living." 

"  Come,  come,  cheer  up,"  the  jovial  one  replied — 

"  Let 's  take  a  look  upon  the  other  side: 

Suppose  we  can  not  fly  like  moths  and  millers, 
Are  we  to  blame  for  being  caterpillars? 

Will  that  same  God  that  doomed  us  crawl  the  earth, 

A  prey  to  every  bird  that 's  given  birth, 


20 


Forgive  our  captor  as  he  eats  and  sings, 

And  damn  poor  us  because  we  have  no  wings? 
If  we  can't  skim  the  air,  like  owl  or  bat, 
The  worm  will  turn  for  a'  that." 

They  argued  through  the  Summer — Autumn  nigh; 

The  ugly  things  composed  themselves  to  die — 
And  so,  to  make  their  funeral  quite  complete, 
Each  wrapped  him  in  his  little  winding-sheet. 

The  tangled  web  encompassed  them  full  soon — 

Each  for  his  coffin  made  him  a  cocoon. 
All  through  the  Winter's  chilling  blasts  they  lay, 
Dead  to  the  world,  aye,  dead  as  any  human  clay. 

Lo!  Spring  comes  forth  with  all  her  warmth  and  love; 

She  brings  sweet  justice  from  the  realms  above — 
She  breaks  the  chrysalis — she  resurrects  the  dead — 
Two  butterflies  ascend,  encircling  her  head. 

And  so,  this  emblem  shall  forever  be 

A  sign  of  Immortality. 


Now  I  Understand 

Ernest  Crosby 


/  TAKE  my  place  in  the  lower  classes.  ... 

/  renounce  the  title  of  gentleman  because  it  has  become 

intolerable  to  me. 
Dear  Master,  I  understand  now  why  you  too  took  your 

place  in  the  lower  classes, 
And  why  you  refused  to  be  a  gentleman. 

'Courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


Eurojpe--igi4 

Mary  White  Slater 


/  SAW  a  thousand  towers — cathedral-towers — 

Arise  serene  and  white 
Into  the  blue  of  crystal  morning  hours, 

Into  the  moonlit  night — 

Z  heard  them  sing  above  the  centuried  clan 

Of  human  work  and  learning, 
The  song  of  peace,  of  brotherhood  for  man, 

Of  Christian  altars  burning — 

When  lo,  the  soids  that  sent  the  lily  towers 

Aspiring  to  the  sky, 
Reminding  men  through  sad  and  joying  hours, 

Of  love,  that  must  not  die — 

Z  saw  them  rushing  passionate  for  gain, 

Storming  a  brother's  gate, 
Blasting  his  temples,  making  all  the  plain 

A  slaughter-pit  for  hate! 

I  heard  the  leader  of  a  royal  game 

Give  the  command, 
God  on  his  lips,  to  murder  in  God 's  name, 

To  crucify  the  land! 

Not  yet,  0  strong  and  tender  Nazarene, 

Thy  temple-towers  arise, 
Not  yet — while  such  a  human  scene 

Can  dawn  on  childhood's  eyes: 

Two  thousand  years — and  still  the  monster-god 

Callous  of  love  and  wit, 
Who  at  a  king's  devout,  fanatic  nod, 

Makes  earth  a  slaughter-pit! 


\ 


V 


Electricity 

Arthur  Edward  Stilwell 


IN  the  dim,  distant  past,  before  Old  World  began, 

Or  Sun  or  Moon  or  Stars  their  wondrous  courses  ran, 

I  was  born  in  the  Ether  of  the  great  Long  Ago, 

Before  Time's  great  Creator  had  sent  the  Rain  or  Snow; 

A  million  and  a  million  years  before  twice  one  was  two, 

I  was  just  an  Idea  in  Space's  azure  blue. 

I  saw  the  whirling  world  come  forth  from  out  the  womb  of 

Night; 
I  watched  the  wondrous  Heavens  formed  of  twinkling  Stars 

most  bright; 

I  sported  in  the  Dipper  and  ran  the  Milky  Way, 
I  watched  Nature's  evolution  of  Night  turned  into  Day; 
I  saw  both  land  and  mountain  rise  from  out  the  deep, 
Earth's  verdure  spread  o'er  all — my  silent  watch  I  'd  keep. 
For  I  was  just  an  Idea  destined  for  earth  some  day, 
And  had  to  wait  for  Man — decreed  to  come  that  way; 
For  his  was  the  dominion  of  land  and  all  the  sea; 
Part  of  this  dominion  was  bound  to  come  through  Me. 
So  thus  in  caves  I  wooed  him  before  the  Age  of  Stone, 
I  courted  him  in  pairs,  I  courted  him  alone. 
I  tried  to  force  the  minds  of  youth  and  then  of  hoary  sage, 
And,  had  my  years  been  counted,  't  would  register  an  Age. 
I  saw  the  years  of  War,  when  Might  was  in  full  sway, 
And  watched  and  waited  long — such  Dreams  must  pass 

away — 

Then  straight  from  out  that  Ether,  sent  to  bless  all  Earth, 
I  slid  down  Franklin's  kite-string — a  humble  way  of  birth. 
But,  when  once  I  landed,  I  grew  by  leaps  and  bounds, 
And  now  for  Power  and  Light  am  used  by  all  the  towns; 
I  am  used  for  scaling  mountains  and  used  for  sailing  seas, 
To  carry  Conversation — fulfilling  God's  decrees. 


Night  and  Waning  Day 

Cora  Bremer 


THE  Night  awakes,  and  in  her  waking  calls 

Unto  the  chastened  Day,  that,  sinking  low, 

Doth  gently  speak  her  sister:  "  Give  them  rest! 

I  fed  them;  gave  them  arm  to  wing  the  sword; 

Fled  with  them  to  the  fields  of  rip'ning  grain; 

Did  leap  within  the  cidprit's  prison-walls, 

And  taught  the  infant  larks  to  sing  their  lay. 

Softly,  I  followed  women  to  the  grave 

Of  their  dear  loved,  who  entered  heav'nly  halls; 

Guiding,  I  led  the  lambkin  back  to  fold; 

And  withered  streams,  and  dried  the  sheaves  to  gold" 

"  0  Day!  I  held  the  dear  ones  deep  in  sleep, 

And  sent  them  dreams,  to  make  more  sure  the  way, 

For  Angels9  visits,  to  the  cots  of  men 

All  spent  with  toil,  and  doubt,  and  dread  of  day; 

And  gave  to  women,  holding  in  their  arms 

Their  new-born  babes,  the  truth — that  Truth  was  all; 

Then,  hearing  far  the  call  of  seamen  tossed, 

With  my  dear  moon,  I  lit  the  wind-blown  sea, 

And  sent  the  stars  to  guide  them  in  their  barks, 

And  bind  their  souls  to  knowledge  of  the  where 

Of  things,  not  seen  or  near;  and  then  the  dew 

I  scattered  far  and  wide,  o'er  field  and  plain; 

And  halting  on  the  stones  of  cities'  streets, 

For  sin  I  saw — /  held  there  fast  the  gloom!  " 


k 

h 


The  City  of  the  Light 

Felix  Adler 


HA  VE  you  heard  the  Golden  City 

Mentioned  in  the  legends  old  ? 
Everlasting  light  shines  o'er  it, 

Wondrous  tales  of  it  are  told; 
Only  righteous  men  and  women 

Dwell  within  its  gleaming  wall, 
Wrong  is  banished  from  its  borders, 

Justice  reigns  supreme  o'er  all. 

We  are  builders  of  that  City; 

All  our  joys  and  all  our  groans 
Help  to  rear  its  shining  ramparts, 

All  our  lives  are  building-stones: 
But  the  work  that  we  have  builded, 

Oft  with  bleeding  hands  and  tears, 
And  in  error  and  in  anguish, 

Will  not  perish  with  our  years. 

It  will  be  at  last  made  perfect 

In  the  universal  plan ; 
It  will  help  to  crown  the  labors 

Of  the  toiling  hosts  of  man: 
It  will  last  and  shine  transfigured 

In  the  final  reign  of  right, 
It  will  merge  into  the  splendors 

Of  the  City  of  the  Light! 


Harvests 

George  Lawrence  Andrews 


FOR  us  our  verdant  fields  are  white  and  fair 
With  golden  harvest  of  a  fruitful  year; 

Our  brothers  harvest  awful  woe  and  care 

On  blood-red  fields  that  should  be  white  with  cheer. 

Our  reapers  sing  at  work  and  life  is  good, 

The  very  air  is  sweeter  than  of  yore; 
Afar  the  swathes  of  dead  through  field  and  wood, 

The  unreturning  gone  from  every  door. 

War's  awful  harvest  claims  the  young,  the  gay, 
The  earth  is  bathed  in  tears,  the  world's  joy  dead; 

We  can  but  hope  that  this  will  haste  the  day 

When  all  earth  shall  Christ's  peaceful  way  be  led. 


The  Black  Riders 

Stephen  Crane 


BLACK  riders  came  from  the  sea. 

There  was  clang  and  clang  of  spear  and  shield, 

And  clash  and  clash  of  hoof  and  heel, 

Wild  shouts  and  the  wave  of  hair 

In  the  rush  upon  the  wind : 

Thus  the  ride  of  sin. 


Mystery 

Jerome  B.  Bell 


WHA  T  is  this  mystery  that  men  call  death  ? 

My  friend  before  me  lies;  in  all  save  breath 

He  seems  the  same  as  yesterday.  His  face 

So  like  to  life,  so  calm,  bears  not  a  trace 

Of  that  great  change  which  all  of  us  so  dread. 

I  gaze  on  him  and  say:  He  is  not  dead, 

But  sleeps;  and  soon  he  will  arise  and  take 

Me  by  the  hand.  I  know  he  will  awake 

And  smile  on  me  as  he  did  yesterday; 

And  he  will  have  some  gentle  word  to  say, 

Some  kindly  deed  to  do;  for  loving  thought 

Was  warp  and  woof  of  which  his  life  was  wrought. 

He  is  not  dead.  Such  souls  forever  live 

In  boundless  measure  of  the  love  they  give. 


A  Beam  of  Light 

John  Jerome  Rooney 


A  BEAM  of  light,  from  the  infinite  depths  of  the  midnight 

sky, 

Painted  with  infinite  love  a  star  in  a  convict's  eye; 
When,  lo!  the  ghosts  of  his  sins  were  afraid  and  fled  with 

a  curse, 
And  the  soul  of  the  man  walked  free  in  the  fields  of  the 

universe ! 


An  Ajpjpeal 

William  Bradford  Dickson 
•8 

THE  dogs  of  war — hellhounds  of  death — 
Are  straining  at  the  leash  the  while 
Their  saber-tusks  drip  red  with  blood. 
With  bated  breath  they  scent  the  trail 
Of  murder,  woe  and  crime  the  while 
Their  baleful  eyes  inflame  with  hate. 
Beneath  the  mask  of  patriot-love 
Of  country,  home  and  fatherland — 
Their  keeper,  man,  with  whip  in  hand 
Goads  into  frenzy  with  his  lash 
The  frantic  beasts  of  shame  and  death. 

How  long,  0  stupid  man,  how  long, 
Shall  paltry,  petty,  foolish  kings 
Strut  to  and  fro  in  spangled  garb, 
Blaspheme  our  God,  usurp  His  throne, 
Reverse  His  laws  of  Brotherhood, 
His  Christ-taught  law  of  "  Peace  on  earth, 
Good-will  to  men,"  and  lead  thy  sons 
To  strife  and  death? 

How  long,  0  stupid  man,  how  long, 
Shall  this  God-world  of  yours  and  mine, 
From  which  springs  forth  in  glad  array 
The  lilies  of  the  field,  the  rose, 
And  all  the  wonders  infinite, 
Be  drenched  with  sacrificial  blood 
Of  brother  strife? 

How  long,  0  stupid  man,  how  long, 

Wilt  thou  play  puppet  to  the  whims 

Of  idle  kings,  man-made  and  weak, 

And  devastate  the  gift  of  God, 

Your  homes  and  flocks  and  bounteous  fields? 

Oh,  blind,  purblind  and  foolish  man! 

Rise  in  God-given  might  and  claim 

Thy  rightful  heritage  of  Peace. 


Off  Kinsale 

Bartholomew  F.  Griffin 


[Only  the  baby's  cap  floating  showed  where  more  than  a 
score  sank. — News  Item.] 

AN  admiral,  bearded,  ponderous,  grim, 

At  his  desk  with  charts  bespread, 
And  some  four  thousand  miles  from  him 

A  babe  in  a  trundle-bed — 

How  could  they  meet  and  when  and  where 

And  their  alien  paths  collide? 
Go  ask  yon  mist-loved  headland  there 

Long  brooding  above  the  tide, 

With  candy-stick  lighthouse  capped  red-white 

And  girt  with  the  fishers'  sail, 
That  the  Dane  kings  saw  and  Armada  fight — 

Ask  the  Old  Head  of  Kinsale! 

In  sight  of  the  rude,  warm  fisher-cot 

At  foot  of  the  watching  cliff, 
Only  a  little  white  cap  afloat 

O'er  grave  of  a  foundered  skiff. 

More  souls — two  thousand — various  wrapped 
With  flesh  and  with  circumstance, 

Were  in  yon  steel-gilt-plush  cage  trapped — 
Two-thirds  had  never  a  chancel 

But  what  of  number  or  of  weight 

In  souls  or  in  gold  or  steel? 
To  the  rocking  babe  't  were  equal  fate 

Had  his  cradle  been  the  keel! 

An  admiral  bearded,  ponderous,  grim, 

At  his  desk  with  charts  bespread, 
And  some  four  hundred  miles  from  him 

A  babe  in  an  ocean  bed! 


Punishment 

Julian  Hawthorne 


FILING  along,  filing  along, 

See  where  they  come,  eight  hundred  strong, 

Shuffling  feet  and  jaded  faces, 

Down  the  aisles,  dropping  into  their  places! 

Some  upstanding,  some  bowed  down, 

With  grin,  or  snarl,  or  sneer,  or  frown  — 

Here  come  the  eight  hundred  of  Deadmen's  Town! 

Filing  past,  filing  past, 

Nose  to  the  front  and  eyes  downcast, 

Each  in  his  jumper  of  shabby  blue 

(With  the  "  U.  S.  P."  and  the  number,  too!) 

Twice  four  hundred,  clad  as  one! 

Are  they  maskers,  masking  for  fun? 

Or  souls  in  Hell,  all  damned  and  done? 

Filing  by,  filing  by, 

Each  with  his  separate  agony, 

With  his  hoarded  secret,  never  told, 

Of  a  life's  fire  quenched  in  a  world  dead  cold! 

Murder,  robbery,  falsehood,  lust, 

Pellmell  into  one  caldron  thrust, 

To  swim  if  they  can,  or  to  sink  if  they  must! 

(From  the  caldron  a  cry:  Why  are  we  here  alone? 
All  men  are  brothers  in  sin!  Must  we  for  the  others  atone? 
Came  answer  :  All  Flesh  is  a  prison,  whose  Jailer  is  Time! 
More  grievous  the  sword  falls  on  the  veiled  than  the  unveiled 

crime! 
The  hurt  that  you  take  may  be  healed;  not  theirs  who, 

blameless  here, 
Wear  robes  snow-white  before  men,  hiding  ulcers  of  evil 

and  fear!) 

Filing  along,  filing  along, 

Ages  of  folly,  hate  and  wrong, 

Each  with  its  tale  of  Might  is  Right, 

With  its  secret  dark,  with  its  flickering  light  ! 

And  our  Christ  on  His  Cross  amidst  them  there! 

Is  He  dead?  Will  He  rise?  Does  He  hear  our  prayer? 

Will  He  leave  us  to  perish  in  our  despair? 


I 


The  Drum-Beat 

Edwin  Smallweed 


(n 


as  grone,  he  '«  growe  away,  he  's  gone  away  for 

good; 

He  's  called,  he  's  killed. 
Him  and  his  drum  lies  in  the  rain,  lies  in  the  rain  where 

they  was  stood, 
Where  they  was  stilled. 
He  was  my  soldier  boy,  my  Ned, 
Between  these  breasts  he  'd  lay  his  head  — 
But  now  he  's  killed. 

My  soldier  's  gone.  His  head  lies  now  between  two  naked 

stones, 

His  drum  is  broke. 
There  's  none  to  mourn  him  in  the  rain,  only  the  rooks 

which  watch  his  bones  : 
Which  watch  and  croak. 
His  great  red  hand  is  wasted  bare, 
That  tapped  his  drum,  that  touched  my  hair, 
Hark!  Not  a  stroke. 

But  what  is  this  beside  my  heart,  beside  my  heart  that 

sounds  ? 

Tap  tap,  tap  tap  ! 
Oh,  what  is  this  that  beats  within,  like  drummers  beating 

bounds, 

Rap  upon  rap? 

What  wonder  have  I  felt  and  heard  ? 
Is  it  the  wing-beats  of  a  bird? 

Tap  tap,  tap  tap! 

My  boy  is  gone,  yet  near  my  heart  another  boy  lies  now. 

Though  he  be  dumb, 

He  thumps  my  heart  like  soldier's  thump,  he  thumps  a 
tow-row-row, 

To  say  he  's  come. 
A  drummer-boy,  all  gaily  drest, 
Will  yet  again  be  at  my  breast. 

Hark!  There  's  his  drum! 


What  Would  He  Say  .' 

David  Banks  Sickels 


WHAT  would  He  say, 

If  Christ  should  come  on  earth  again, 
After  long  centuries  have  passed  away, 

Since  last  He  judged  the  hearts  of  men  ? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  find  unconquered,  still  the  same 
Wild  passions  have  their  fatal  sway, 

As  when  He  bore  the  cross  in  shame? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  see  the  nations  armed  for  war, 
With  battleships  in  stern  array, 

As  in  the  blood-stained  years  of  yore? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  know  the  maddening  greed  for  gain  — 
And  grasping  hands  that  none  can  stay, 

Still  rule  the  human  heart  and  brain? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  hear  that  gold  can  garnish  crimes, 
Where  timid  virtue  fears  to  stay, 

Like  Sodom  in  her  direful  times? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  learn  of  stealthy  bribes  and  fraud, 
As  in  the  time  of  Rome's  decay, 

Defying  right  and  law  and  God? 

What  would  He  say, 

Of  him  who  gains  the  poor  man's  mite 
By  lying  lips,  then  dares  to  pray, 

As  though  his  God  were  far  from  sight? 

What  would  He  say, 

Of  those  whose  hidden  guilt  profanes 
The  altar  where  they  deign  to  lay 

Their  hearts,  where  vengeance  yet  remains? 


What  would  He  say, 

Of  those  who  think  that  money's  power 
Can  drive  the  curse  of  sin  away — 

The  coward  creatures  of  an  hour  ? 

What  would  He  say, 

Of  men  whose  pilfered  gold  is  given 
With  vulgar  pride  from  day  to  day 

In  vain,  to  bribe  the  Court  of  Heaven? 

What  would  He  say, 

Of  men  renowned  in  church  and  school 
Who  strive  to  teach  and  preach  and  pray, 

And  then  forget  the  golden  rule? 

What  would  He  say, 

Of  those  who  spurn  their  sacred  vows, 
When  sin  has  led  their  hearts  astray 

And  written  crime  upon  their  brows? 

What  would  He  say, 

Of  men  who  rear  a  gilded  fane, 
Where  Pharisees  may  proudly  pray 

To  mitigate  the  curse  of  Cain? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  find  that  ancient  rites  and  creeds, 
Still  lure  the  mortal  mind  away 

From  higher  thoughts  and  nobler  deeds? 

What  would  He  say, 

To  see  the  ruin  rum  has  made 
With  splendid  minds  from  day  to  day — 

The  joyless  homes  and  hearts  betrayed? 

What  would  He  say, 

In  judgment  that  His  words  sublime, 
By  impious  hands  are  thrown  away, 

While  echoing  down  the  aisles  of  time? 


7  he  Cry  of  the  Crammers 

William  Hawley  Smith 


HYGIENE  and  history, 

Asiatic  mystery, 
Algebra,  histology, 
Latin  etymology; 

Botany,  geometry; 
Ram  it  in  and  cram  it  in, 

Children's  heads  are  hollow. 

Scold  it  in,  mold  it  in, 
All  that  they  can  swallow; 

Fold  it  in,  hold  it  in, 

Still  there  's  more  to  follow. 


Faces  pasty,  pinched  and  pale, 
Tell  the  plaintive,  piteous  tale; 
Tell  the  hours  robbed  from  sleep, 
Robbed  from  meals  for  studies  deep 
All  who  'twixt  these  milestones  go 
TeU  the  selfsame  tale  of  woe. 
How  the  teacher  crammed  it  in, 
Rammed  it  in,  jammed  it  in, 
Crunched  it  in,  punched  it  in, 
Rubbed  it  in,  clubbed  it  in, 
Pumped  it  in,  stumped  it  in, 
Rapped  it  in,  slapped  it  in, 
When  their  heads  were  hollow. 


Kinship 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 


/  AM  part  of  the  sea  and  stars 

And  the  winds  of  the  South  and  North, 

Of  mountain  and  moon  and  Mars, 
And  the  ages  sent  me  forth  1 

Blind  Homer,  the  splendor  of  Greece, 
Sang  the  songs  I  sang  ere  he  fell; 

She  whom  men  call  Beatrice, 
Saw  me  in  the  depths  of  hell. 

I  was  hanged  at  dawn  for  a  crime — 
Flesh  dies,  but  the  soul  knows  no  death; 

I  piped  to  great  Shakespeare's  chime 
The  witches'  song  in  Macbeth. 

All,  all  who  have  suffered  and  won, 

Who  have  struggled  and  failed  and  died, 

Am  I,  with  work  still  undone, 
And  a  spear-mark  in  my  side. 

I  am  part  of  the  sea  and  stars 

And  the  winds  of  the  South  and  North, 
Of  mountain  and  moon  and  Mars, 

And  the  ages  sent  me  forth ! 


Song  of  the  Ships 

Clinton  Scollard 


THE  great  ships  go  a-shouldering 

Along  my  line  of  shore; 
The  little  ships  like  sea-gulls  fly 
Under  the  blue  tent  of  the  sky, 
And  some  will  lie  a-moldering 
Where  phosphor  lights  are  smoldering, 

And  sail  no  more,  no  more! 

Spruce  and  trig 

Is  yon  bounding  brig — 

"  Whither  away,  my  master?  " 
"  Oh,  just  for  a  bit  of  a  jaunty  trip, 
From  the  lazy  ooze  of  Salem  slip 
To  where  the  long  tides  roar  and  rip 
Round  the  coral  keys 
Of  the  outer  seas, 

And  the  combers  cry  '  disaster! ' 
Out  and  up  with  the  topsail  there! 
There  's  plenty  of  God's  free  briny  air 

To  crowd  her  a  little  faster !  " 

Ah,  like  a  lark 
Dips  yonder  bark — 

Poises  and  dips  and  rises; 
"  Whither  away?  " 
"  To  the  clear  blue  day, 
And  the  Lost  Lagoon 
Where  the  flame  of  noon 

Is  full  of  rapt  surprises, 
And  the  tropic  moon 
As  it  swings  aswoon, 

Entangles  and  entices." 


It 's  "  champ!  champ!  champ!  " 
Goes  the  wheezy  tramp, 

With  her  funnels  low  and  raky ; 
"  Whither  away?  "  "  Well,  the  good  Lord  knows 
Where  we  'II  land  if  it  up  and  blows, 
For  the  keel  is  foul  (that  's  one  of  our  woes) 

And  the  screw  is  mighty  shaky; 
But  we  'II  weather  to  port  although  it  be 
Under  the  gray-green  roof  of  the  sea, 
And  we'll  warp  to  the  pier 
With  a  rouse  of  cheer 

Though  queer  be  the  pier  and  quaky." 

Like  an  arrowy  shaft 
From  fore  to  aft 

Onward  urges  the  liner; 
"  Whither  away?  "  Strong  comes  the  hail — 
"  O'er  creamy  crest  and  o'er  beryl  vale 
To  the  gates  of  the  Ultimate  East  we  sail 
Where  the  rose  abides  and  the  nightingale 

Sits  caroling — none  diviner. 
A  myriad  hopes — not  a  wraith  of  doubt — 
Throb  between  our  decks  as  we  hurtle  out; 
And  the  mind  and  the  shaping  hand  of  man, 
Since  the  ancient  surge  of  Time  began, 

Ne'er  fashioned  a  splendor  finer" 

With  sparkling  spar 
Glides  the  man-o'-war, 

Her  great-gunned  turrets  towering; 
"  Whither  away?  "  "  To  the  verge  of  earth 
To  guard  the  rights  of  the  free  of  birth, 
And  give  them  a  taste  of  our  Yankee  mirth 

Wherever  the  foe  be  lowering; 
And  should  it  come  to  the  last  appeal, 
To  the  cruel  chrism  of  fire  and  steel, 
Be  it  man  on  bridge,  in  hold,  at  wheel, 

There  'II  be  no  caitiff  cowering!  " 


And  so  the  ships  go  shouldering 

Along  my  line  of  shore, 
And  whether  they  dare  the  threat  of  the  Horn, 
Or  make  for  the  Golden  Isles  of  the  Morn, 
Under  the  sapphire  tent  of  sky, 
Some  will  range  back  by  and  by, 
And  some  will  lie  a-moldering, 
Where  phosphor  lights  are  smoldering, 

And  sail  no  more,  no  more  ! 


Can  You  Blame  Him  ? 

BramleyKite 


YOU  have  ridiculed  the  farmer  all  your  life, 
You  have  taken  but  have  given  point  of  knife. 
He  is  now  in  a  position  to  declare, 
"  You  scoffed  at  me,  but  now  your  shelves  are  bare, 
I  will  raise  enough  to  feed  my  family  well  — 
The  rest  of  you  may  josh  your  way  to  hell" 


7  he  City  Invincible 

Walt  Whitman 

*« 

/  DREAM'D  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the 
attacks  of  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  earth. 

I  dreamed  that  was  the  new  city  of  Friends; 

Nothing  was  greater  there  than  the  quality  of  robust  love  — 
it  led  the  rest, 

It  was  seen  every  hour  in  the  actions  of  the  men  of  that 

city, 
And  in  all  their  looks  and  words. 


A  May  Idyl 

Milton  Murdoch* 


WITH  rake  and  hoe  doth  Gladys  go 

A-gardening  this  sunny  weather, 
Sweet  peas  about  her  porch  to  sow 

Midst  hollyhocks  and  princess-feather. 
She  sends  me  here,  she  sends  me  there, 

And  loving  aid  I  gladly  lend  her, 
My  Gladys,  oh !  how  passing  fair 

With  violet  eyes  so  softly  tender. 

How  bright  the  day;  the  air  of  May 

How  sweet  with  breath  of  blossoms  laden, 
And  can  you  wonder  that  I  stay  ? 

The  tempting  scene,  the  lovely  maiden  I 
What  reck  I  though  we  ne'er  may  wed, 

I  kiss  her  cheek,  who  could  resist  her  ? 
Through  pearly  portals  cherry  red 

She  whispers,  "  Phyllis,  dearest  sister  I " 

*In  " Century  Magazine" 


Heroes  of  the  Home 

Parker  H.  Sercombe 


FULL  many  a  restless  soul  has  dared  to  climb 
The  yardarm's  end  lashed  by  the  fretful  sea. 
Others  have  sought  the  din  of  war  sublime 
And  risked  the  chance  of  death  or  victory. 
Of  what  cheap,  gilded  stuff  are  "  heroes  "  made 
Who  thus  invite  oblivion's  tranquil  knell! 
The  truly  brave  know  every  cliff  and  glade, 
Live  out  their  span  AT  HOME  and  live  it  well. 


Ballade  of  Justice 

Frank  Putnam 


OF  all  sad  tales  that  ever  were  told 
None  more  bitter  has  reached  my  ears 

Than  hers  who,  gay  in  a  gown  of  gold, 
Man  with  derrick  and  windlass  rears 
To  guard  his  weal,  to  allay  his  fears 

And  prove  to  the  gods  his  own  great  worth. 
She  wrings  my  heart,  so  excuse  these  tears! 

Poor  little  Justice,  blind  at  birth! 

High  on  the  Court-House  dome  she  stands, 

Symbol  of  man's  supreme  desire, 
Scales  and  sword  in  her  shapely  hands, 

Brow  that  glows  in  the  sun's  red  fire; 

Beneath  her,  men  sell  Truth  for  hire 
And  make  her  a  mock  in  their  mad  mirth; 

They  sell  her,  too,  when  they  find  a  buyer  : 
Poor  little  Justice,  blind  at  birth! 

Others  our  gods  do  we  likewise  flout, 

Praise  or  punish  with  gross  disdain; 
Kind  when  our  future  seems  in  doubt, 

Cruel  when  life  leaps  up  again. 

I  take  no  heed  of  other  gods'  pain 
Wrought  by  the  wayward  sons  of  earth; 

In  pity  of  her  my  peace  is  slain  : 
Poor  little  Justice,  blind  at  birth! 

L'Envoi 
Prince,  some  day  under  fairer  skies, 

Enshrined  in  love  above  each  hearth, 
She  will  guide  our  steps  with  opened  eyes  : 

Poor  little  Justice,  blind  at  birth! 


The  Embryo  Citizen 

Carl  Nelson 


HERE  I  salute  you,  0  infant  son  of  Democracy, 

As  you  sit  there  laughing  and  pouting  by  turns — 

What  will  your  contribution  be  to  the  sum  of  Existence  ? 

Those  bold  brown  eyes  and  rich  red  locks — 

Will  they  be  lost  in  the  shuffle 

Or  will  they  serenely  bob  up  in  succeeding  contests? 

You  massive,  healthy  and  wholesome  boy, 

Of  pure  blood  and  untainted  progenitors, 

I  wish  you  well  as  you  start  on  the  highway  of  Life, 

And  in  these  lines  my  hopes  and  prophecies  for  you  I 

commingle  : 

In  what  path  you  may  choose  for  the  upward  climb, 
Whether  music,  or  agriculture,  or  journalism  or  commerce, 
Be  a  bold  adopter  and  innovator  of  new  formulas, 
Be  not  in  any  sense  a  conventional  trailer. 
Be  sure  you  are  right,  then  herald  to  the  world  your 

opinions. 

Be  an  Enjoyer,  a  Lover,  a  Patriot  and  a  Universal  Citizen, 
A  despiser  of  meanness  and  a  communer  with  Nature, 
A  climber  of  hills  and  a  measurer  of  mighty  distances. 
Of  your  own  rights  and  your  country's  laws  you  are  the 

sentinel; 

When  you  meet  Wrong  on  the  way,  don't  give  up  the  path, 
But  be  a  bold  and  fearless  challenger. 
When  Kindness  comes  to  you,  give  her  your  right  hand 
And  speed  her  on  the  way  cheered  and  laden  with  tokens. 
If  Falsehood  and  Avarice  would  stealthily  come  to  make 

terms, 

Or  if  Vice  draws  near  with  his  subtle  blandishments, 
Tell  them  all  to  go  to  the  Devil. 
Be  a  Soldier  of  Good — 
And  when  you  have  learned  to  step  in  unison 
With  other  good  Lovers,  Comrades  and  Countrymen, 
Throw  out  your  chest  and  give  voice  to  your  Slogan  I 


The  Law  of  Life 

James  Ball  Naylor 


LO  !  this  is  the  law  of  life  : 

A  song  of  peace,  and  a  day  of  strife; 
A  day  of  strife,  and  a  song  of  peace  — 
And  the  thunder  of  battles  that  never  cease. 

And  this  is  the  law  of  life! 

From  the  morning  gray  of  the  farthest  day, 

Down  the  centuries  there  has  come  — 
To  the  clash  of  arms,  and  the  mad  alarms 

Of  trumpet  and  fife  and  drum  — 
This  eternal  truth:  that  the  War  God's  ruth 

Is  akin  to  the  fiercest  hate; 
That  Man,  in  the  game,  is  as  flax  to  flame  — 

And  the  pitiful  fool  of  fate! 

From  the  days  forgot  —  and  when  time  was  not, 

And  the  first  man  stood  alone  — 
To  the  days  of  old  when  the  barons  bold 

Built  their  castles  of  oak  and  stone, 
Then  to  drink  and  fight  in  a  wild  delight 

Was  the  order  of  church  and  state; 
And  Man,  in  the  game,  was  the  moth  in  the  flame  — 

And  the  pitiful  fool  of  fate! 

From  the  days  of  old  —  to  the  days  of  gold 

That  we  moderns  so  highly  prize, 
Have  the  cries  and  groans  and  the  sighs  and  moans 

Of  the  dying  assailed  the  skies; 
And  to  slave  and  fight  from  morn  till  night  — 

Is  the  rule  of  the  wise  and  great; 
And  Man,  in  the  game,  is  as  flax  to  flame  — 

And  the  pitiful  fool  of  fate! 


Yea,  the  War  God  quaffs  of  our  blood — and  laughs 

At  the  mothers  who  give  us  birth; 
For  his  skull-deck'd  throne  is  the  brawn  and  bone 

Of  the  strenuous  sons  of  earth! 
And  the  months  roll  on — and  the  years  are  gone. 

Yet  his  passion  does  not  abate; 
And  Man,  in  the  game,  is  the  moth  in  the  flame — 

And  the  pitiful  fool  of  fate! 

For  this  is  the  law  of  life : 

A  song  of  peace,  and  a  day  of  strife; 
A  day  of  strife,  and  a  song  of  peace — 
And  the  thunder  of  battles  that  never  cease. 

And  this  is  the  law  of  life! 


Living  Death 

John  E.  Nordquist 


WHAT  is  a  living  death? 

'  T  is  when  the  love  of  progress  dies 
Within  the  human  mind; 

When  vainly  better  nature  cries 
Against  the  dull  day  grind; 

When  reason  will  not  harken, 
But  is  constrained  to  darken 

And  make  the  mourner  blind. 
SUCH  LIFE  IS  LIVING  DEATH! 


Belgium 

George  Grant  Morrison 


SWIFT  to  the  fore  the  nation  leaped, 

To  breast  the  rushing  hordes  of  hell; 
Shock  upon  shock  it  stood,  blood-steeped, 
One  against  twenty,  but  God,  how  it  reaped 
Their  legions  in  masses  of  dead,  high-heaped, 
And  struck  the  monster's  knell. 

Into  the  little  kingdom  crashed 

The  mightiest  murder-engines  wrought; 

Belgian  soul  to  soul  was  lashed; 

Belgian  courage  in  miracles  flashed  ; 

And  ever,  though  cities  and  forts  were  smashed, 
The  Belgian  stayed  and  fought. 

Grim  and  alone,  but  by  each  side 

The  silent,  unseen  push  of  God; 
Holding  in  check  the  monster's  stride, 
Crumpling  his  fist  in  the  mail  of  his  pride, 
And  battling  till  Vengeance  aroused,  allied, 

Swung  on  the  field  full-shod. 

Long  o'er  the  world  the  monster  gloomed, 

A  dread  unrest  through  every  land; 
Civilization's  menace  loomed; 
Honor  was  strangled  and  conscience  entombed; 
But  Prophets  of  old  have  him  marked  and  doomed; 

Yea,  this  is  God's  command. 


Play  the  Game! 

Henry  Newbolt 


THERE  'S  a  breathless  hush  in  the  close  tonight- 
Ten  to  make  and  the  match  to  win — 
A  bumping  pitch  and  a  blinding  light, 

An  hour  to  play  and  the  last  man  in. 
And  it 's  not  for  the  sake  of  a  ribboned  coat, 

Or  the  selfish  hope  of  a  season's  fame, 
™  But  his  captain's  hand  on  his  shoulder  smote — 

f^"  "  Play  up!  play  up!  and  play  the  game!  " 

The  sand  of  the  desert  is  sodden  red — 

Red  with  the  wreck  of  a  square  that  broke — 
The  galling  's  jammed  and  the  colonel  dead, 

And  the  regiment  blind  with  dust  and  smoke. 
The  river  of  death  has  brimmed  his  banks, 

And  England  's  far,  and  Honor  a  name, 
But  the  voice  of  a  schoolboy  rallies  the  ranks : 

"  Play  up!  play  up!  and  play  the  game!  " 

This  is  the  word  that  year  by  year, 

While  in  her  place  the  School  is  set, 
Every  one  of  her  sons  must  hear, 

And  none  that  hears  it  dare  forget. 
This  they  all,  with  a  joyful  mind, 

Bear  through  life  like  a  torch  in  flame, 
And  falling  fling  to  the  host  behind — 

"  Play  up!  play  up!  and  play  the  game!  " 


The  Eternal  Quest 

James  Ball  Nay  lor 


MAN  whimpered  and  crouched  in  his  rocky  cave 

In  the  heart  of  the  lonesome  wild, 
For  just  without  was  a  shallow  grave 

Containing  his  wife  and  child; 
And  Man,  a  primitive,  untamed  thing, 

Cared  naught  for  the  silence  drear, 
But  he  heard  the  flap  of  an  owlet's  wing  — 

And  he  shuddered  in  nameless  fear. 

And  —  "  avaunt!  "  —  was  the  timid  cry  he  gave; 

"Are  ye  living  —  ye  who  died?  " 
But  only  the  wind  swept  o'er  the  grave  — 

And  only  the  wind  replied! 

In  the  dewy  dusk,  from  his  shepherd's  tent, 

Man  glided  with  sandaled  tread, 
And  led  by  the  rising  moon  he  went 

To  the  place  of  his  silent  dead; 
And  there,  on  the  lone,  rock-girdled  plain  — 

As  the  night-breeze  loitered  by, 
He  lifted  his  voice  to  his  heart's  refrain  — 

And  his  face  to  the  starry  sky. 

"  Oh,  gods  of  my  fathers!  "  he  wailed  aloud, 
"Are  they  living  —  these  who  died?  " 

But  the  moon  hid  under  a  fleecy  cloud  — 
And  never  a  god  replied! 

At  dawn  of  day,  in  a  temple  grand, 
Knelt  Man  —  with  his  head  low-bowed; 

And  above  and  about  him,  on  ev'ry  hand, 
Were  the  works  of  his  genius  proud  : 


i 

en 


Paintings  and  sculptures  of  fabled  beasts, 

Demons,  angels  and  gods, 
And — most  insignificant,  lowliest,  least! — 

Himself,  as  the  king  of  clods. 

"  Thou  Almighty  One!  "  was  his  anguished  moan, 
"  Shall  they  wake  again — the  dead?  " 

But  the  Great  One  nodded  upon  His  throne — 
And  never  a  word  He  said! 

And  today  Man  delves  into  science,  deep — 

In  a  futile  effort  to  gain 
A  hint  of  the  life  that  shall  follow  sleep, 

A  glimpse  of  the  soul's  domain; 
But,  as  fruitless  always  has  been  his  quest 

And  groundless  his  hopes  and  fears, 
The  riddle  today  remains  unguessed — 

Unsolved  by  his  toil  and  tears. 

And  Man  yet  cries  to  the  Powers  that  be : 
"  Oh,  grant  that  my  pray'r  be  heard! 

Is  a  future  existence  in  store  for  me?  " 
But  never  an  answering  word! 


Life 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld 


LIFE!  we  've  been  long  together 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 

'  T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear — 

Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning. 

Choose  thine  own  time; 
Say  not  Good-Night — but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good-Morning. 


Just  Dont! 

C.  L.  Armstrong 


DO  you  feel  you  'd  like  to  quit  ?  Don't  I 
Get  to  feeling  you  don't  fit?  Don't! 
Do  you  want  to  yell  "  all-in" 
Cause  your  wind  's  a  little  thin 
And  you  think  you  'II  never  win  ? 
Don't! 

There  's  a  kick  you  want  to  make  ?  Don't! 
There  's  a  head  you  want  to  break  ?  Don't ! 
Do  you  feel  you  want  to  whine 
Like  a  genuine  canine 
And  send  blue  streaks  down  the  line  ? 
Well  Don't! 

When  you  see  a  chance  to  duck,  Don't! 
When  you  want  to  chuck  your  luck,  Don't! 
Keep  right  on  without  a  stop 
And  you  'II  sure  show  up  on  top, 
If,  just  when  you  want  to  flop, 

You  Don't! 


Genesis 

John  Hall  Ingham 


DID  Chaos  form  —  and  water,  air  and  fire, 
Rocks,  trees,  the  worm,  work  toward  Humanity  — 
That  Man  at  last,  beneath  the  churchyard  spire, 
Might  be  once  more  the  worm,  the  rock,  the  tree? 


The  Great  Lover 

Rupert  Brooke 


THESE  I  have  loved: 

White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming, 

Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery  dust; 

Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamplight;  the  strong  crust 

Of  friendly  bread;  and  many-tasting  food; 

Rainbows;  and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of  wood; 

And  radiant  raindrops  couching  in  cool  flowers; 

And  flowers  themselves,  that  sway  through  sunny  hours, 

Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under  the  moon; 

Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that  soon 

Smooth  away  trouble;  and  the  rough  male  kiss 

Of  blankets;  grainy  hair;  live  hair;  that  is 

Shining  and  free;  blue-massing  clouds;  the  keen 

Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine; 

The  benison  of  hot  water;  furs  to  touch; 

The  good  smell  of  old  clothes;  and  others  such  — 

The  comfortable  smell  of  friendly  fingers, 

Hair's  fragrance,  and  the  musty  reek  that  lingers 

About  dead  leaves  and  last  year's  ferns. 


A  VIEWLESS  thing  is  the  wind, 

But  its  strength  is  mightier  far 
Than  a  phalanxed  host  in  battle-line, 

Than  the  limbs  of  a  Samson  are. 

And  a  viewless  thing  is  Love, 

And  a  name  that  vanisheth; 
But  her  strength  is  the  wind's  wild  strength  above, 

For  she  conquers  Shame  and  Death. 

—  Richard  Burton 


Give  Us  Men ! 

Bishop  of  Exeter 


GIVE  us  Men! 
Men  from  every  rank, 
Fresh  and  free  and  frank; 
Men  of  thought  and  reading, 
Men  of  light  and  leading, 
Men  of  loyal  breeding, 
The  Nation's  welfare  speeding: 
Give  us  Men! — I  say  again, 

Give  us  Men! 

Give  us  Men! 

Men  whom  highest  hope  inspires, 
Men  whom  purest  honor  fires. 
Men  who  trample  Self  beneath  them, 
Men  who  make  their  country  wreath  them, 
Men  who  never  shame  their  mothers, 
Men  who  never  fail  their  brothers, 
True,  however  false  are  others: 
Give  us  Men! — /  say  again, 

Give  us  Men! 

Give  us  Men! 

Men  who,  when  the  tempest  gathers, 
Grasp  the  standard  of  their  fathers 

In  the  thickest  fight: 
Men  who  strike  for  home  and  altar 
(Let  the  coward  cringe  and  falter) . 

God  defend  the  right! 
True  as  truth,  though  lorn  and  lonely, 
Tender,  as  the  brave  are  only; 
Men  who  tread  where  saints  have  trod, 
Men  for  Country — Home — and  God: 

Give  us  Men!  I  say  again — again — 
Give  us  such  Men! 


Education" 

Ernest  Crosby 


HERE  are  two  educated  men. 

The  one  has  a  smattering  of  Latin  and  Greek; 

The  other  knows  the  speech  and  habits  of  horses  and 

cattle,  and  gives  them  their  food  in  due  season. 
The  one  is  acquainted  with  the  roots  of  nouns  and  verbs; 
The  other  can  tell  you  how  to  plant  and  dig  potatoes  and 

carrots  and  turnips. 
The  one  drums  by  the  hour  on  the  piano,  making  it  a 

terror  to  the  neighborhood; 
The  other  is  an  expert  at  the  reaper  and  binder,  which  Jills 

the  world  with  good-cheer. 
The  one  knows  or  has  forgotten  the  higher  trigonometry 

and  the  differential  calculus; 
The  other  can  calculate  the  bushels  of  rye  standing  in  his 

field  and  the  number  of  barrels  to  buy  for  the  apples 

on  the  trees  in  his  orchard. 
The  one  understands  the  chemical  affinities  of  various 

poisonous  acids  and  alkalies; 

The  other  can  make  a  savory  soup  or  a  delectable  pudding. 
The  one  sketches  a  landscape  indifferently; 
The  other  can  shingle  his  roof  and  build  a  shed  for  himself 

in  workmanlike  manner. 
The  one  has  heard  of  Plato  and  Aristotle  and  Kant  and 

Comte,  but  knows  precious  little  about  them; 
The  other  has  never  been  troubled  by  such  knowledge,  but 

he  will  learn  the  first  and  last  word  of  philosophy, 

"  to  love,"  far  quicker,   I  warrant  you,  than  his 

college-bred  neighbor. 
For  still  is  it  true  that  God  hath  hidden  these  things  from 

the  wise  and  prudent  and  revealed  them  unto  babes. 
Such  are  the  two  educations: 
Which  is  the  higher  and  which  the  lower? 

'Courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


Pochades 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole 


/:  SEA-GULLS 

THE  beach  curves  like  a  Moorish  simitar; 

Behind  it  are  high  dunes  of  shifting,  drifting  sand. 

A  tidal  river  skirts  them; 

And  where  it  flows  into  the  sea  a  bar 

Is  left  whereon  a  thousand  sea-gulls  stand 

Preening  their  glossy  gray  plumage. 

They  face  one  way  —  they  face  the  wind. 

As  I  approach  them  from  behind 

With  one  accord  they  spread  their  wings  and  rise 

With  wild  discordant  cries. 

Their  flashing  feathers  fleck  the  fleckless  skies; 

Then,  turning,  wheeling,  from  afar 

They  float  like  living  snowflakes  on  a  summer  day 

Above  the  green  and  violet  waters  of  the  Bay! 

II:  SANDPIPERS 
A  FLOCK  of  eager  sandpipers 
Forms  my  bodyguard  as  I  pace  the  beach. 
Half  a  hundred  of  them,  with  twinkling  feet, 
Hurry  on  ahead  of  me,  just  out  of  reach. 
There  they  stop,  where  the  dying  wavelets  meet 
The  fringe  of  dry  sand,  red  with  fine  garnets, 
And  peck  at  the  living  things  thai  make  their  food. 
This  pretty  game  a  dozen  times  they  repeat. 
Then,  as  I  raise  my  arm, 
Suddenly,  in  alarm, 
Taking  wing,  in  a  long  curve 
They  swerve 

And  pass  me  just  over  the  crests  of  the  breakers 
And  settle  far  behind. 
To  them  their  life  is  sweet; 


But  a  Huntsman,  with  primitive  instinct  to  kill, 

And  armed  with  a  shotgun,  flushes  them. 

He  fires — a  sharp  report: — the  bevy,  all  broken,  scatters! 

A  dozen,  maimed  and  dying,  dot  the  sands: 

He  grasps  them  in  his  cruel  hands. 

What  matters 

Their  agony  compared  with  his  desires? 

To  him  his  cruelty  seems  not  ill: 

He,  like  as  they  do,  hunts  his  food. 

But  for  me  the  sky  is  darkened. 

At  what  Huntsman's  weapon  must  we  die? 


Consecration 

A.  Francis  Trams 


I  DO  not  ask,  0  God,  that  I 

Should  always  find  my  pathway  fair  ; 
I  only  pray  that  I  may  try 

To  "  knit  the  raveled  sleeve  of  care." 

I  do  not  ask,  0  God,  for  fame 
Along  the  highway  I  must  take; 

I  only  pray  that  I  may  name 

Some  guerdon  for  lone  hearts  that  break. 

I  do  not  ask,  0  God,  that  I 

May  one  day  find  my  homing  nest; 
I  pray  to  blaze  for  passers-by 

The  shining  trail  where  ends  the  Quest. 


Leetle  Bateese 

Dr.  W.  H.  Drummond 


YOU  bad  leetle  boy,  not  moche  you  care 
How  busy  you  're  kipin  your  poor  gran'pere, 
Tryin  to  stop  you  ev'ry  day 
Chasin'  de  hen  aroun'  de  hay — 
Wy  don't  you  geev  dem  a  chance  to  lay? 
Leetle  Bateese  I 

Off  on  de  fiel'  you  f oiler  de  plow, 
Den  wen  you  're  tire  you  scare  de  cow, 
Sickin'  de  dog  till  dey  jomp  de  wall 
So  de  milk  ain't  good  for  not' ing  at  all — 
An'  you  're  only  five  an'  a  half  dis  fall, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Too  sleepy  for  sayin'  de  prayer  tonight? 
Never  min'  I  s'pose  it  'II  be  all  right. 
Say  dem  tomorrow — ah!  dere  he  go! 
Fas'  asleep  in  a  minute  or  so — 
An'  he  'II  stay  lak  dat  till  de  rooster  crow, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Den  wake  us  up  right  away  toute  suite 
Lookin'  for  somet  'ing  more  to  eat, 
Makin'  me  t'ink  of  dem  long  leg  crane 
Soon  as  dey  swatter,  dey  start  again, 
I  wonder  your  stomach  don't  get  no  pain, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

But  see  heem  now  lyin'  dere  in  bed, 
Look  at  de  arm  onderneaf  hees  head ; 
If  he  grow  lak  dat  till  he  's  twenty  year 
I  bet  he  'II  be  stronger  dan  Louis  Cyr 
An'  beat  all  de  voyageurs  leevin'  here, 
Leetle  Bateese! 


Jes'  feel  de  muscle  along  hees  back, 
Wont  geev  heem  moche  bodder for  carry  pack 
On  de  long  portage,  any  size  canoe, 
Dere  's  not  many  t'ing  dot  boy  won't  do, 
For  he  's  got  double-joint  on  hees  body  too, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

But  leetle  Bateese!  please  don't  forget 
We  rader  you  're  stayin'  de  small  boy  yet, 
So  chase  de  chicken  an'  mak'  dem  scare 
An'  do  w'at  you  lak  wit'  your  ole  gran'pere, 
For  wen  you  're  beeg  feller  he  won't  be  dere — 
Leetle  Bateese! 


Fast  Asleep 

William  Hunter  Maxwell 
*» 

OPPORTUNITY  knocked  at  the  door, 

Of  a  man  needy  and  poor; 

He  waited  long  to  be  let  in, 

To  bid  the  man  go  work  and  win; 

To  knock  upon  knock  was  no  reply, 

Yet  loath  was  he  to  pass  him  by. 

Pondering,  wondering,  he  went  away, 

No  word  could  he  to  that  man  say. 

Since,  such,  man  sows,  that  shall  he  reap, 

Suffer  shall  he,  for  being  fast  asleep. 

Such  is  the  world,  we  find  more  and  more, 

He  who  needs  most,  bolts  fast  his  door, 

Nor  e'en  through  the  lattice  does  he  peep, 

And  when  Opportunity  knocks,  he  's  fast  asleep. 


When  Wilt  Thou  Save  the 
People  ? 


Ebenezer  Elliott 


WHEN  wilt  thou  save  the  people? 
0  God  of  mercy,  when  ? 
Not  kings  and  lords,  but  nations! 
Not  thrones  and  crowns,  but  men! 
Flowers  of  Thy  heart,  0  God,  are  they; 
Let  them  not  pass,  like  weeds,  away — 
Their  heritage  a  sunless  day. 
God  save  the  people! 

Shall  crime  bring  crime  forever? 

Strength  aiding  still  the  strong? 

Is  it  Thy  will,  0  Father, 

That  man  shall  toil  for  wrong? 

"  No,"  say  Thy  mountains;  "  No,"  Thy  skies, 

Man's  clouded  sun  shall  brightly  rise, 

And  songs  ascend  instead  of  sighs. 

God  save  the  people! 

When  wilt  Thou  save  the  people? 
0  God  of  mercy,  when? 
The  people,  Lord,  the  people, 
Not  thrones  and  crowns,  but  men! 
God  save  the  people;  Thine  they  are, 
Thy  children  as  Thine  angels  fair; 
From  vice,  oppression  and  despair, 
God  save  the  people! 


Phyllis 

Eric  A.  Darling 


PHYLLIS,  from  her  latticed  casement, 

Where  the  climbing  roses  twine, 
Plucked  a  dewy  bud  one  morning, 

Dropped  it  from  her  hand  to  mine. 
Butterflies  and  blooming  flowers 

Helped  to  make  that  window  gay; 
Fitting  background  for  the  picture — 

Phyllis  in  her  negligee. 

Just  a  glimpse  of  frills  and  ribbons, 

Just  a  memory  of  a  face 
Framed  about  in  buds  and  roses, 

And  a  cloud  of  misty  lace; 
Laughing  eyes,  still  dark  with  slumber, 

Soft  red  lips  where  dimples  play, 
Round  white  arm,  hair  in  disorder — 

Phyllis  in  her  negligee. 

At  my  high  desk  in  the  city, 

Where  I  earn  my  daily  bread, 
On  the  margin  of  the  blotter, 

There  are  sketches  of  a  head: 
Bending  o'er  the  office-ledger, 

Double-entries  fade  away, 
And  instead — all  framed  in  roses — 

Phyllis  in  her  negligee! 


Where  Art  Thou,  God  ? 

David  Dillard  Haggard 


WHERE  art  than,  God? 
My  soul  cried  out  in  longing  for  the  infinite; 

I  long  have  sought  Thy  face  — 
But  to  my  darkened  soul  there  comes  no  light. 

I  sought  to  find  Thee,  Lord, 
Among  the  throng  within  the  marts  of  trade. 

Alas,  I  found  not  Thee  — 
But  greed  and  self  'gainst  self  and  greed  arrayed. 

In  search  of  Thee 
I  scanned  the  books  of  men  whose  names  endure. 

0  waste  of  words  ! 

Their  thoughts  are  stale  —  they  guess,  they  are  not  sure. 

1  seek  in  vain, 

And  in  my  eyes  unbidden  teardrops  start. 
I  laugh  —  it  dawns  on  me  — 
That  Thou,  0  God,  art  ever  in  the  heart. 


OUT  —  out  are  the  lights  —  out  all! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
,The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 

And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

—  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Destiny 

David  Hoyle 


FA  TE  holds  our  lives,  and — all  unseen  of  us — 
Guides,  as  with  reins,  despite  our  puny  strain, 
To  the  predestined  goal;  where  garnered  hopes 
In  plenteous  fruition,  all  the  sweets 
Of  aspiration  followed  and  fulfilled, 
Ambitions  gratified,  fears  turned  to  joys, 
Requited  loves,  fame,  fortune! — or  despair, 
Or  wreck,  or  lesser  ills  (but  ills  the  same) 
In  aspect  multiform  our  coming  greet. 

But  goals  are  starting-points  of  new  careers, 

Each  from,  each  differing;  in  aspiring  curve 

Progressing,  till  equated  good  and  ill 

Shall  balance  in  a  vibratory  pause, 

And  coalesce  in  mystic  union! 

And  as  twin  gases,  merged,  are  crystal  dew, 

They,  good  and  ill,  shall  each  in  each  absorbed, 

Thence  form  one  infinite  Beneficence! 

And  Fate,  at  length  unveiled,  is  Love  revealed. 


0  FRIEND,  my  bosom  said, 

Through  ihee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 

Through  ihee  the  rose  is  red, 

All  things  through  ihee  take  noble  form 

And  look  beyond  the  earth, 

And  is  the  mill-round  of  our  fate, 

A  sun  path  in  thy  worth. 

Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair; 

The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship  fair . 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


Rowena 

Martha  C.  Schwartz 


I  AM  Rowena, 

Daughter  of  the  wind, 

And  of  the  rain 

And  of  the  sunshine  ; 

Lover  of  the  flowers, 

And  of  the  trees, 

And  of  the  brooklets; 

Sister  of  the  bees, 

And  of  the  birds, 

And  of  the  butterflies. 
My  haunts  are  in  the  fields, 

And  in  the  woods, 

And  by  the  creeksides. 

I  laugh  and  sing  and  skip  and  dance 

Across  the  verdant  meadows, 

And  let  the  breeze  play  hide-and-seek 

Among  my  tangled  hair. 

I  roam  the  woods  at  leisure, 

I  gambol  with  the  squirrels, 

And  with  the  birds  I  raise  my  voice  in  song. 

I  love  to  watch  the  ripples 

On  the  waters  of  the  brook, 

And  listen  to  the  music 

That  the  passing  wavelets  make. 
And  on  the  rainy  days  and  cold, 

I  write  and  sing  and  dream. 

I  write  about  the  flowers, 

And  of  the  birds, 

And  of  all  nature. 

I  sing  their  praises  in  good  poetry. 

I  love  to  hear  good  music, 

Sweet  music  with  a  soul, 

Or  better  still  to  run  my  flngers 

O'er  the  ivory  keyboard 

And  let  the  quivering  melody 

Sink  deep  and  penetrate 

My  inmost  heart. 

am  a  dreamer: 

In  Wintertime  I  dream  about  the  Summer; 


In  Summer,  of  the  fluttering  flakes  of  snow. 

Yes,  I  am  Monarch  of  the  Earth  and  Sky. 

And  yet — /  am  their  slave. 

For  miles  and  miles  and  miles 

I  chase  the  butterfly, 

Until,  exhausted,  down  I  sink 

Upon  some  grassy  knoll. 

For  hours  and  hours  and  hours, 

I  count  the  twinkling  stars, 

Until  bewildered,  mystified, 

I  fall  asleep. 

For  days  and  days  and  days, 

I  watch  the  lily-bud 

That  slowly  opens  into  life, 

Until  at  last  a  glorious,  fragrant  bloom ! 

I  pluck  the  flower  and  lo ! 

A  shower  of  petals  at  my  feet  remains. 
Is  there  in  all  this  world 

A  greater  happiness 

Than  I  possess? 

Can  there  be  sweeter  peace 

Than  in  my  bosom  reigns? 

A  greater  love  can  any  mortal  preach 

Than  I  have  for  these  beauteous  things  ? 
Hast  seen  this  curious  vision 

All  dressed  in  snowy  white, 

Go  flitting  o'er  the  meadows 

Outwitting  coming  night  ? 

Hast  seen  her  nimbly  skipping 

Across  some  rocky  crag 

Or  leaping  yawning  chasms 

To  greet  approaching  day? 

Hast  heard  her  joyous  laughter 

Ring  through  the  forest  trees, 

Or  echoing  from  the  hillside 

In  soft,  sweet  melodies? 
Think  not  I  am  a  gypsy, 

An  enchantress  or  insane, 

I  'm  Mother  Nature's  daughter — 

Rowena  is  my  name. 


Opportunity 

John  J.  Ingalls 

•8 

MASTER  of  human  destinies  am  I : 
Fame,  Love  and  Fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait, 
Cities  and  fields  I  walk;  I  penetrate 
Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 
Hovel  and  mart  and  palace,  soon  or  late, 
I  knock,  unbidden,  once  at  every  gate. 
If  sleeping,  wake;  if  feasting,  rise  before 
I  turn  away ;  it  is  the  hour  of  Fate, 
And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 
Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 
Save  Death;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 
Condemned  to  Failure,  Penury  and  Woe, 
Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore; 
I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more. 


William  H.  Eddy 

FOOLISH  is  he  who  says  that  at  his  door 
I  knock  but  once,  a  furtive  moment  stay, 
Fearing  lest  he  shall  hear,  then  haste  away, 
Glad  to  escape  him — to  return  no  more. 
Not  so;  I  knock  and  wait  and  o'er  and  o'er 

Come  back  to  summon  him.  Day  after  day 

I  come  to  call  the  idler  from  his  play 
Or  wake  the  dreamer  with  my  vain  uproar. 
Out  of  a  thousand,  haply,  now  and  then 
One,  if  he  hear  again  and  yet  again, 

Will  tardy  rise  and  open  languidly. 
The  rest,  half-puzzled,  half-annoyed,  return 
To  play  or  sleep,  nor  seek  nor  wish  to  learn 

Who  the  untimely,  clownish  guest  may  be. 


62 


Illusion* 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


WAR 

I  abhor, 

And  yet  how  sweet 

The  sound  along  the  marching  street 

Of  drum  and  fife!  And  I  forget 

Wet  eyes  of  widows,  and  forget 

Broken  old  mothers,  and  the  whole 

Dark  butchery  without  a  soul. 

Without  a  soul — save  this  bright  drink 
Of  heady  music,  sweet  as  death; 
And  even  my  peace-abiding  feet 
Go  marching  with  the  marching  street : 
For  yonder,  yonder,  goes  the  fife, 
And  what  care  I  for  human  life? 
The  tears  fill  my  astonished  eyes, 
And  my  full  heart  is  like  to  break; 
And  yet  't  is  all  embannered  lies, 
A  dream  those  little  drummers  make. 

Oh,  it  is  wickedness  to  clothe 

Yon  hideous  grinning  thing  that  stalks 

Hidden  in  music,  like  a  queen 

That  in  a  garden  of  glory  walks, 

Till  good  men  love  the  thing  they  loathe! 

Art,  thou  hast  many  infamies, 

But  not  an  infamy  like  this. 

Oh,  snap  the  fife,  and  still  the  drum, 

And  show  the  monster  as  she  is. 


*Courteiy  of  John  Lane  Co.,  owners  of  copyright. 


Peace 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


WERE  half  the  power  that  Jills  the  earth  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  for  arsenals  and  forts. 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred! 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain. 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 
Which  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

Is  it,  0  Man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  eternal  harmonies? 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  the  voice  of  Christ  once  more  say,  "  Peace!  " 

Peace!  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


The  Call  of  the  Vast 

Oscar  A.  Triplet 


HA  VE  you  camped  in  forests  vast  and  wild 
That  lift  the  load  and  leave  you  child — 
Where  the  light  falls  dappled  upon  the  earth, 
Where  the  heart  is  filled  with  joy  and  mirth  ? 
Then  come  with  me. 

Have  you  roamed  in  forests  where  silence  prays 
To  knit  up  the  sleeve  that  business  frays? — 
Feeling  the  forest  is  your  faithful  friend 
Does  your  longing  soul  thither  trend? 
Then  come  with  me. 

Have  you  slept  high  up  by  mountain  streams 
And  heard  the  music  that  gives  sweet  dreams — 
Nature's  music  that  can  never  cease; 
That  always  sings  of  rest  and  peace  ? 
Then  come  with  me. 

Have  you  ever  trudged  to  the  top  of  a  trail, 
Trudged  and  toiled,  till  tired  and  frail, 
And  gazed  from  the  crest 
And  found  peace  and  rest  ? 

Then  come  with  me. 

Have  you  stood  on  mountains  peaked  to  sky, 

And  heard  whisperings  of  God  from  His  throne  on 

high? 

Then,  standing  uncovered,  the  vastness  see 
And  the  blessing  feel ;  "  Come  unto  me, 
And  I  will  give  you  rest!" 


Spring 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


HOPE,  wide  of  high  and  wild  of  wing, 

Rose  with  the  sun-dawn  of  a  reign 

Whose  grace  should  make  the  rough  way  plain, 
And  fill  the  worn  old  world  with  spring, 

And  heal  its  heart  of  pain. 

Peace  was  to  be  on  earth;  men's  hope 
Was  holier  than  their  fathers  had, 
Their  wisdom  not  more  wise  than  glad. 

They  saw  the  gates  of  promise  ope 
And  heard  what  love's  lips  bade. 

War  after  war,  change  after  change, 
Hath  shaken  thrones  and  towers  to  dust, 
And  hopes  austere  and  faiths  august 

Have  watched  in  patience  stern  and  strange 
Man's  works,  unjust  and  just. 

As  from  some  alpine  watch-tower's  height 
Night,  living  yet,  looks  forth  for  dawn, 
So  from  Time's  mistier  mountain-lawn 

The  spirit  of  men,  with  inward  sight, 

Yearns  towards  a  hope  withdrawn. 

^ 

The  morning  comes  not,  yet  the  night 

Wanes,  and  men's  eyes  win  strength  to  see 
Where  twilight  is,  where  light  shall  be 

When  conquered  wrong  and  conquering  right 
Acclaim  a  world  set  free. 


0  God  of  Wrath 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 


of  wrath,  if  such  there  be, 
As  men  were  taught  in  days  of  old, 
How  canst  Thou  look  on  patiently 
At  Hate  and  Murder  uncontrolled? 
Let  down  the  whirlwind  and  the  flood, 
The  lightning  and  the  chastening  scourge; 
Afflict  the  land  that  first  spilled  blood, 
And  out  of  it  let  Love  emerge. 

Canst  Thou  watch  on  indifferently, 
When  righteous  men  are  put  to  shame 
At  deeds  upon  the  land  and  sea 
Too  terrible  for  any  name  ? 
Some  say  that  Thou  art  impotent, 
And  Gabriel's  sword  is  didl  with  rust; 
Stretch  forth  Thy  hand  ere  Faith  be  spent; 
Restore  Thy  people  to  their  trust. 

Be  Thou  the  God  Thou  wast  of  old, 
Who  crushed  Injustice  'neath  Thy  heel; 
Indifference  hath  made  men  bold, 
They  keep  Thy  mighty  earth  a-reel. 
Still  let  them  know  that  Thou  art  God, 
Nor  let  Thine  awful  anger  cease 
Till  they,  beneath  Thy  chastening  rod, 
Have  learned  the  perfect  way  of  Peace! 


High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 


This  beautiful  poem  was  written  January,  Eighteen  Hun- 
dred Eighty-seven,  by  Will  H.  Thompson,  of  Seattle, 
Washington,  who  served  in  the  Fourth  Georgia  Infantry, 
C.  S.  A.,  and  who  took  part  in  this  battle. 

A  CLO  UD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield; 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 
A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo! 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled; 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 


"  Once  more  in  glory's  van  with  me!  " 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee : 
"  We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  today!  " 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee!  In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say : 
"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag! '' 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet! 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet! 

Above  the  bayonets  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost! 

The  brave  went  down !  Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace; 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face! 


They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 

God  lives!  He  forged  the  iron  witt 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill ; 
God  lives  and  reigns!  He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom  s  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

Fold  up  the  banners!  Smelt  the  guns! 
Love  rules.  Her  gentle  purpose  runs; 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons! 


We  Live  in  Deeds 

Philip  James  Bailey 


WE  live  in  deeds,  not  years;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.  He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best. 


A  Prayer 

Thaddeus  B.  Wakeman 


0  WORLD,  0  Man,  and  Soid  of  M 
The  Endless  All;  our  Holy  Three! 

1  live  and  love  in  work  and  joy, 
With  Thee—  in  Thee! 

So  may  my  life  to  all  give  meed, 
As  other  lives  supply  my  need. 
To  each  I  dedicate  my  all, 
In  thought  and  deed. 

0  let  me  learn  to  know  the  True, 
So  that  the  Good  my  hand  may  do  — 
That  what  is  life  to  me  shall  live 
The  ages  through. 

0  may  my  will  as  thine  be  done  — 
Thy  will  and  mine  so  closely  spun 
That  in  the  pattern  of  the  years 
We  shall  be  one. 

So  come  our  splendid  reign  of  Man 
Our  Paradise  of  Earth  to  plan  — 
For  Each  and  All;  for  Me  and  All. 
Amen,  Amen. 


War 

George  Beebe 

"8 

NIGHT  marshaled  up  her  scattered  troops  and  fled 
Along  the  darkened  desert  of  the  west, 
As  Morning  led  her  shining  armies  forth, 
And  took  possession  of  the  waking  world. 


My  Work 

Henry  Van  Dyke 
•8 

LET  me  but  do  my  work  from  day  to  day, 
In  field  or  forest,  at  the  desk  or  loom, 
In  roaring  market-place  or  tranquil  room; 
Let  me  but  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say, 
When  vagrant  wishes  beckon  me  astray  : 

"  This  is  my  work;  my  blessing,  not  my  doom. 
Of  all  who  live,  I  am  the  one  by  whom 
This  work  can  best  be  done  in  the  right  way" 
Then  shall  I  find  it  not  too  great  nor  small, 
To  suit  my  spirit  and  to  prove  my  powers; 
Then  shall  I  cheerful  greet  the  laboring  hours, 
And  cheerful  turn,  when  the  long  shadows  fall, 
At  eventide  to  play  and  love  and  rest, 
Because  I  know  for  me  my  work  is  best. 


k 

n> 


The  Ladder  of  Truth 

Ernest  Crosby 


SIN,  justice,  fear,  an  angry  Judge  —  with  these  we  are  on 

the  lowest  round  of  the  ladder  of  truth. 
How  long  the  world  dwelt  there,  and  how  many  still  look 

back  regretful  to  those  days! 

One  step  higher  and  we  find  forgiveness  and  a  Father. 
For  most  men  that  is  the  last  word,  but  we  must  press 

upward. 
Beyond  fatherhood   and   brotherhood   we  grope  toward 

organic  oneness  —  we  dimly  feel  that  God  is  palpi- 

tating, all-embracing  love. 

*Courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


The  World  to  the  Poet 

Julia  Ditto  Young 


NOW  the  dull,  weary  world  at  last  doth  rouse 
From  the  deep  stupor  of  its  opium-drowse 
And  laughs  :  "A  seraph  child  hath  lost  his  way 
Among  the  stars!  Come  hither,  pretty  stray  — 
What  curls,  what  dimples!  —  Sing  again  the  song 
That  thou  wert  singing  as  thou  cam'st  along, 
And  I  will  give  thee  corals,  lilies,  gold, 
More  treasure  than  thy  little  arms  can  hold, 
And  thou  shall  rest,  and  sing  for  me  again. 
And  my  cracked  pipe  shall  join  the  song,  and  then, 
If  thou  must  go  and  wilt  no  longer  stay, 
I'll  garland  thee  with  ivy-leaves  and  bay, 
And  set  thee  safely  on  thy  homeward  way!" 


The  Maniac  s  Complaint 


Stephen  Crane 


"  /  HAVE  heard  the  sunset  song  of  the  birches 

A  white  melody  in  the  silence. 

I  have  seen  a  quarrel  of  the  pines 

At  nightfall. 

The  little  grasses  have  rushed  by  me 

With  the  wind-men. 

These  things  have  I  lived,"  quoth  the  maniac, 

"  Possessing  only  eyes  and  ears. 

But,  you  — 

You  don  green  spectacles  before  you  look  at  roses." 


The  Feller  With  the  Hoe 

William  Colby  Cooper 


BY  naich'ral  upwardness,  the  troglodyte 
Stepped  out  'n  the  ape.  This  was  some  time  ago. 
Borned  was  the  troglodyte  with  club  in  hand. 
'T  was  fittin,  this,  fer  it  was  'noughfer  him — 
He  made  his  livin'  with  the  dub.  That  time 
'T  was  true,  society  had  neither  top 
Ner  bottom,  fer  these  was  identical. 
The  first  of  anarchists,  the  troglodyte, 
To  wear  the  "  big  stick,"  first. 

The  upwardness 

Kept  busy  and  it  come  to  pass,  they  was 
Two  children  borned,  one  with  a  sword  within 
Its  hand,  and  t '  other  with  a  hoe.  Both  was 
Consumers,  but  it  is  a  cranky  fact 
That  only  one  was  a  producer,  and — 
The  world  swings  ever  'twixt  the  two.  The  hoe 
Runs  from  the  field-hoe  up,  and  up,  and  up 
Unto  that  hoe  that  dug  out  Hamlet.  Now, 
The  hoeless  feller,  he  leans  on  the  hoe — 
The  other  feller's  hoe.  He  gits  along 
Quite  well,  thank  you. 

The  most  importantest  hoe  's 
The  hoe  that  tickles  up  the  sile.  'Thout  it, 
They  would  n't  be  no  grub;  'thout  grub,  you  know, 
We  'd  lose  the  hoe  itself,  and  'thout  the  hoe, 
They  would  n't  be  nothin'  for  us  but  to  go 
Back  to  the  club!  The  feller  with  the  hoe  's 
God 's  pardner;  they  work  touchin'  elbows,  and 
The  angels,  they  look  on,  and  smile  and  wait. 


Myrrh 

Adelbert  Clark 


TONIGHT,  the  sunset's  splendor 

Has  left  a  tiny  bloom; 
The  fairest  tint  of  lavender 
To  break  the  purple  gloom. 
And  from  the  garden's  glory — 

My  pretty  garden-close. 
There  comes  the  tender  fragrance 
Of  one  belated  rose. 

How  sweet  and  calm  and  peaceful 

God  sends  the  time  of  rest, 
And  yet,  how  oft  in  sorrow 
We  face  the  flaming  west. 
We  waste  the  time  in  worry 

O'er  things  misunderstood — 
The  things  that  God  the  sender 
Created  for  our  good. 

We  reach  across  the  silence 

For  things  that  ne'er  return; 
We  do  not  seek  contentment, 
But  pray  and  plead  and  yearn. 
We  make  our  loss  just  double 

And  deepen  every  woe, 

Because  we  cling  to  Sorrow, 

And  will  not  let  her  go! 


Aurora  Borealis 

Maurice  R.  Brown 


BRIGHT,  gleaming,  flashing  beams  of  Northern  Light 
That  darting  upwards  in  the  heavens  high 
Doth  form  a  fiery  arch  across  the  sky, 

Imparting  mystery  and  awe  to  Night, 

What  Menace  is  there  in  thy  flash  for  man? 
Art  thou  reflections  of  the  flaming  sword 
Whose  glittering  blade  restrained  the  sinful  horde 

From  Eden,  where  God  now  had  put  a  ban, 

Lest  they  should  take  the  tree  of  life  and  eat 
And  live  forever,  and  God  perhaps  defy, 
When  He  condemned  all  sinful  men  to  die 

Lest  Heaven's  plans  for  men  should  meet  defeat? 


Is  this  the  secret  of  the  Northern  Light? 

Doth  God  still  keep  His  angel  guarding  there 
To  bar  the  entrance  to  an  Eden  fair? 

Do  men  think  this  who  brave  the  Arctic  Night? 


Is  this  the  secret  of  the  North  Pole  Game? 
Are  there  men  who  think  the  Northern  Pole 
The  tree  that  everlasting  life  may  dole 

To  them  by  giving  never-dying  Fame? 


A  Boy  and  a  Girl 

Irving  Browne 


A  BOY  and  girl  upon  the  yettow  beach 
Blew  shining  bubbles  in  the  Summer  air; 

And  as  they  floated  off  they  named  them,  each 
Choosing  what  seemed  to  him  or  her  most  fair. 

"  I  name  mine  Wealth,"  exclaimed  the  careless  boy; 

"  So  may  I  never  have  to  count  the  cost, 
But  ships  and  houses  own,  as  now  a  toy  "; 

But  Wealth  was  driven  far  out  to  sea  and  lost. 

"  I  name  mine  Beauty,"  said  the  pretty  girl; 

"  So  women  all  shall  envy  my  fair  face, 
And  men  shall  kneel  and  beg  me  for  a  curl  "; 

But  Beauty  vanished  quickly  into  space. 

"  I  name  this  Fame,"  essayed  the  boy  again; 

"  So  may  I  hear  my  praises  every  hour, 
As  orator  or  soldier,  sung  by  men  "; 

But  Fame  was  wrecked  against  the  beacon-tower. 

"  This  is  Long  Life,"  returned  the  little  maid; 

"  So  may  I  happy  be  for  many  a  year. 
Nor  be  till  late  of  ugly  death  afraid  "; 

But  Long  Life  broke  within  a  graveyard  near. 

At  last  twin  globules  they  together  blew. 

And  named  them  Love,  as  slow  they  rose  on  high; 
The  sun  shone  through  them  with  prismatic  hue, 

Till  Love  was  lost  within  the  glowing  sky. 


Pickett'  s  Charge 

(July  3*  1863} 
Fred  Emerson  Brooks 


WHEN  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg, 
For  three  long  days,  with  carnage  fraught, 
Two  hundred  thousand  men  had  fought  ; 
And  courage  could  not  gain  the  field, 
Where  stubborn  valor  would  not  yield. 
With  Meade  on  Cemetery  Hill, 
And  mighty  Lee  thundering  still 
Upon  the  ridge  a  mile  away; 
Four  hundred  guns  in  counterplay 
Their  deadly  thunderbolts  had  hurled  — 
The  cannon  duel  of  the  world!  — 

When  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg. 

When  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg, 
Dread  war  had  never  known  such  need 
Of  some  o'er  mastering,  valiant  deed; 
And  never  yet  had  cause  so  large 
Hung  on  the  fate  of  one  brief  charge. 
To  break  the  center,  but  a  chance; 
With  Pickett  waiting  to  advance; 
It  seemed  a  crime  to  bid  him  go, 
And  Longstreet  said  not  "  Yes  "  nor  "  No,' 
But  silently  he  bowed  his  head. 
"  I  shall  go  forward!  "  Pickett  said. 

Then  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg. 

Then  Pickett  charged  at  Gettysburg: 
Down  from  the  little  wooded  slope, 
A-step  with  doubt,  a-step  with  hope, 
And  nothing  but  the  tapping  drum 
To  time  their  tread,  still  on  they  come. 
Four  hundred  cannon  hush  their  thunder, 


<n 


While  cannoneers  gaze  on  in  wonder! 
Two  armies  watch,  with  stifled  breath, 
Full  eighteen  thousand  march  to  death, 
At  elbow-touch,  with  banners  furled, 
And  courage  to  defy  the  world, 
In  Pickett  's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'T  is  Pickett' s  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
None  but  tried  veterans  can  know 
How  fearful  't  is  to  charge  the  foe; 
But  these  are  soldiers  will  not  quail, 
Though  Death  and  Hell  stand  in  their  trail! 
Flower  of  the  South  and  Longstreet's  pride, 
There  's  valor  in  their  very  stride! 
Virginian  blood  runs  in  their  veins, 
And  each  his  ardor  scarce  restrains; 
Proud  of  the  part  they  're  chosen  for: 
The  mighty  cyclone  of  the  war, 

In  Pickett' s  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'T  is  Pickett' s  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
How  mortals  their  opinions  prize 
When  armies  march  to  sacrifice, 
And  souls  by  thousands  in  the  fight 
On  Battle's  smoky  wing  take  flight. 
Firm-paced  they  come,  in  solid  form 
The  dreadful  calm  before  the  storm. 
Those  silent  batteries  seem  to  say: 
"  We  're  waiting  for  you,  men  in  gray!  " 
Each  anxious  gunner  knows  full  well 
Why  every  shot  of  his  must  tell 

On  Pickett' s  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'T  is  Pickett' s  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
What  grander  tableau  can  there  be 
Than  rhythmic  swing  of  infantry 
At  shouldered  arms,  with  flashing  steel? 
As  Pickett  swings  to  left,  half -wheel, 


Those  monsters  instantly  outpour 
Their  flame  and  smoke  of  death!  and  roar 
Their  fury  on  the  silent  air — 
Starting  a  scene  of  wild  despair: 
Lee's  batteries  roaring:  "  Room!  Make  room!! 
With  M cade's  replying:  "  Doom!  'T  is  doom 
To  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg!  " 

'T  is  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
Now  Hancock's  riflemen  begin 
To  pour  their  deadly  missiles  in. 
Can  standing  grain  defy  the  hail? 
Will  Pickett  stop?  Will  Pickettfail? 
His  left  is  all  uncovered  through 
That  fateful  halt  of  Pettigrew! 
And  Wilcox  from  the  right  is  cleft 
By  Pickett's  half -wheel  to  the  left! 
Brave  Stannard  rushes  'tween  the  walls, 
No  more  disastrous  thing  befalls 

Brave  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg! 

'T  is  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
How  terrible  it  is  to  see 
Great  armies  making  history: 
Long  lines  of  muskets  belching  flame! 
No  need  of  gunners  taking  aim 
When  from  that  thunder-cloud  of  smoke 
The  lightning  kills  at  every  stroke! 
If  there  's  a  place  resembling  hell, 
'T  is  where,  'mid  shot  and  bursting  shell, 
Stalks  Carnage,  arm  in  arm  with  Death, 
A  furnace  blast  in  every  breath, 

On  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg. 

'T  is  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg: 
Brave  leaders  fall  on  every  hand! 
Unheard,  unheeded  all  command! 
Battered  in  front  and  torn  in  flank; 
A  frenzied  mob  in  broken  rank! 


4 

(T 


They  came  like  demons  with  a  yell, 
And  fight  like  demons  all  pellmell! 
The  wounded  stop  not  till  they  fall; 
The  living  never  stop  at  all  — 
Their  blood-bespattered  faces  say: 
"  'T  is  death  alone  stops  men  in  gray, 
With  Picketfs  charge  at  Gettysburg!  " 

Stopped  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg 
Where  his  last  officer  fell  dead, 
The  dauntless,  peerless  Armistead! 
Where  ebbed  the  tide  and  left  the  slain 
Like  wreckage  from  the  hurricane  — 
That  awful  spot  which  soldiers  call 
"  The  bloody  angle  of  the  wall," 
There  Pickett  stopped,  turned  back  again 
Alone,  with  just  a  thousand  men  ! 
And  not  another  shot  was  fired  — 
So  much  is  bravery  admired  : 

Pickett  had  charged  at  Gettysburg. 


With  All  Thy  Gifts 

Walt  Whitman 


WITH  all  thy  gifts,  America, 

Standing  secure,  rapidly  tending,  overlooking  the  world, 

Power,  wealth,  extent  vouchsafed  to  thee  —  with  these  and 

like  of  these  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
What  if  one  gift  thou  lackest  (the  ultimate  human  problem 

never  solving) 
The  gift  of  perfect  women  fit  for  thee  —  what  if  that  gift  of 

gifts  thou  lackest? 
The  towering  feminine  of  thee?  the  beauty,  health  com- 

pletion fit  for  thee  ? 
The  mothers  fit  for  thee? 


Prison  Song 

John  Carter 


WHEN  I  am  free, 

The  jangling  chords  that  mar  the  melody 
Shall  die  to  silence,  and  the  music  surge 
Onward,  till  in  the  song  of  Life  it  merge. 

When  I  walk  straight, 
They  that  have  bowed  in  sorrow  desolate 
Shall  greet  the  sunrise  of  fulfilled  desire, 
And  in  her  eyes  shall  shine  a  new-born  fire. 

Whilst  I  am  here, 

Though  lonely  year  must  follow  lonely  year, 
I  know  the  time  's  at  hand  when  this  shall  seem 
The  passing  shadow  of  an  evil  dream. 


My  Heart  Leaps  Up 

William  Wordsworth 


MY  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


Our  Hope 

John  Leonard  Conrad 


OUR  hope  is  that  some  day 
We  shall  have  a  religion  of  life, 
Not  of  death; 
A  religion  for  this  world, 
Not  for  a  world  to  come; 
A  religion  that  shall  be  an  every-day  religion, 
Not  one  of  Sundays  only; 
A  religion  that  shall  be  based  on  action, 
Not  only  on  belief; 

A  religion  of  trenchant  truth  and  vital  grasp, 
Not  one  of  dogmatic  formula  and  complacent  self-indul- 
gence; 

One  that  takes  in  the  whole  man, 
Not  only  a  part  of  him, 
And  that  the  least  part. 


Man  His  Own  Star 

J.  Fletcher 


MAN  is  his  own  star;  and  the  soul  that  can 
Render  an  honest  and  a  perfect  man 
Commands  all  light,  all  influence,  all  fate; 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early,  or  too  late. 
Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 


The  Old  House  on  the  Hill 

Adelbert  Clark 


THE  old  house  stands  upon  the  hill, 

The  crickets  sing  beneath  the  sill, 
The  blinds  are  broken,  worn  and  gray, 

And  spiders  spin  their  webs  all  day 
Across  the  shattered  window-pane 

All  blurred  and  spattered  with  the  rain, 
And  brambles  grow  about  the  door 

Where  lilies  bloomed  in  days  of  yore. 

Within  the  ancient  orchard  old, 

The  ruddy  apples  red  and  gold 
Are  just  as  sweet  as  in  the  years 

When  life  was  free  from  burning  tears; 
And  in  the  path  the  weeds  are  tall, 

And  burdocks  grow  along  the  wall, 
And  there  's  a  charm  I  can't  forget, 

That  lingers  'round  the  old  place  yet. 

The  old  house  stands  upon  the  hill, 

And  as  I  cross  the  well-worn  sill, 
The  crickets  hush  their  piping  song 

And  there  's  a  stillness  all  along 
The  dusky  hall  and  up  the  stair, 

A  stillness  like  a  soul  in  prayer, 
And  there  's  a  fragrance  at  the  door 

Where  lilies  bloomed  in  days  of  yore. 

Beside  the  tangled  garden-close 

Where  used  to  bloom  the  yellow  rose, 

The  burial-plot  is  overgrown  — 
The  moss  is  thick  upon  each  stone. 

The  graves  are  sunken  —  so  7  turn 


And  watch  the  crimson  sunset  burn, 
And  then  I  wander  down  the  hill, 
Though  memory  lingers  with  me  still. 

0,  happy  days!  alas,  alack, 

I  would  not  seek  to  call  you  back, 
For  well  I  know  earth's  joys  must  end, 

And  we  must  part,  yes,  friend  with  friend. 
But  oh!  the  memory  that  must  burn — 

The  heart  that  ne'er  will  cease  to  yearn! 
The  haunting  breath  beside  the  door 

Where  lilies  bloomed  in  days  of  yore! 


The  Bachelor 

T.  N.  Hendricks 


NIGHTS  that  I  've  spent  in  dreaming, 
Days  that  were  given  to  toil  — 
Hours  as  Centuries  seeming, 
Fraught  with  the  muck  and  the  moil. 

Years  that  were  filled  with  sorrow, 

Tears  that  followed  withal- 

Trusting  ever  the  morrow, 

For  the  Woman  who  was  worth  it  All. 

Dreams  that  have  died  in  making, 
Toil  that  has  brought  no  gain  — 
Hope  like  the  dawn  abreaking, 
Ending  like  the  Night,  and  rain. 
Years  —  oh,  they  were  too  fleeting, 
Age  has  followed  withal  — 
Still  the  Vision  's  retreating, 
Of  the  Woman  who  was  worth  it  All. 


Each  Small  Gleam  Was  a  Voice 

Stephen  Crane 


EACH  small  gleam  was  a  voice, 

A  lantern  voice — 

In  little  songs  of  carmine,  violet,  green,  gold. 

A  chorus  of  colors  came  over  the  water, 

The  wondrous  leaf-shadows  no  longer  wavered, 

No  pines  crooned  on  the  hills, 

The  blue  night  was  elsewhere  a  silence 

When  the  chorus  of  colors  came  over  the  water. 

Little  songs  of  carmine,  violet,  green,  gold. 

Small  glowing  pebbles 

Thrown  on  the  dark  pane  of  evening 

Sing  good  ballads  of  God 

And  eternity,  with  soul 's  rest. 

Little  priests,  little  holy  fathers, 

None  can  doubt  the  truth  of  your  hymning 

When  the  marvelous  chorus  comes  over  the  water, 

Songs  of  carmine,  violet,  green,  gold. 


Leaf  After  Leaf  Drops  Off 

Walter  Savage  Landor 


LEAF  after  leaf  drops  off,  flower  after  flower, 

Some  in  the  chill,  some  in  the  warmer  hour  : 

Alive  they  flourish,  and  alive  they  fall, 

And  Earth  who  nourished  them  receives  them  all. 

Should  we,  her  wiser  sons,  be  less  content 

To  sink  into  her  lap  when  life  is  spent? 


Life  and  Death1 

Ernest  Crosby 


SO  he  died  for  his  faith.  That  is  fine, 

More  than  most  of  us  do. 
But,  say,  can  you  add  to  that  line 

That  he  lived  for  it,  too? 
In  his  death  he  bore  witness  at  last 

As  a  martyr  to  the  truth. 
Did  his  life  do  the  same  in  the  past, 

From  the  days  of  his  youth  ? 
It  is  easy  to  die.  Men  have  died 

For  a  wish  or  a  whim — 
From  bravado  or  passion  or  pride, 

Was  it  harder  for  him? 
But  to  live — every  day  to  live  out 

All  the  truth  that  he  dreamt, 
While  his  friends  met  his  conduct  with  doubt 

And  the  world  with  contempt. 
Was  it  thus  that  he  plodded  ahead, 

Never  turning  aside? 
Then  we  'II  talk  of  the  life  that  he  lived. 

Never  mind  how  he  died. 

'Courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


Alms 

Robert  Herrick 


GIVE,  if  thou  canst,  an  alms;  if  not,  afford 
Instead  of  that  a  sweet  and  gentle  word. 
God  crowns  our  goodness,  wheresoever  He  sees 
On  our  part,  wanting  the  abilities. 


The  Day 

Henry  Chappell 


YOU  boasted  the  Day,  you  toasted  the  Day, 

And  now  the  Day  has  come, 
Blasphemer,  braggart  and  coward,  all, 
Little  you  reck  of  the  numbing  ball, 
The  blasting  shell,  or  the  "  white  arm's  fall," 

As  they  speed  poor  human  home. 

You  spied  for  the  Day,  you  lied  for  the  Day, 

And  woke  the  Day's  red  spleen, 
Monster,  who  asked  God's  aid  Divine, 
Then  strewed  His  seas  with  the  ghastly  mine, 
Not  all  the  waters  of  all  the  Rhine 

Can  wash  thy  foul  hands  clean. 

You  dreamed  for  the  Day,  you  schemed  for  the  Day, 

Watch  how  the  Day  will  go, 
Slayer  of  age  and  youth  and  prime 
(Defenseless  slain  for  never  a  crime), 
Thou  art  steeped  in  blood  as  a  hog  in  slime, 

False  friend  and  cowardly  foe. 

You  have  sown  for  the  Day,  you  have  grown  for  the  Day, 

Yours  is  the  harvest  red. 
Can  you  hear  the  groans  and  the  awful  cries, 
Can  you  see  the  heaps  of  the  slain  that  lies, 
And  sightless  turned  to  the  flame-split  skies, 

The  glassy  eyes  of  the  dead  ? 

You  have  longed  for  the  Day,  you  have  wronged  for  the  Day, 
That  lit  the  awful  flame; 


'  T  is  nothing  to  you  that  hill  and  plain 
Yield  sheaves  of  dead  men  amid  the  grain; 
That  widows  mourn  for  their  loved  ones  slain, 
And  mothers  curse  thy  name. 

But  after  the  Day  there  's  a  price  to  pay, 

For  the  sleeper  under  the  sod; 
And  He  you  have  mocked  for  many  a  day, 
Listen  and  hear  what  He  has  to  say, 
"  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay  " — 
What  can  you  say  to  God? 


At  the  Grave  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Joseph  E.  Chase 


BENEA  TH  the  arching  palms  of  that  fair  land 
Where  Beauty  reigns  supreme,  thou  walkest  now, 
The  mark  of  endless  life  upon  thy  brow; 
Magnificent,  alone  —  not  hand  in  hand 
With  Psyche,  as  of  yore,  but  doubly  grand, 
—Ten  sublimated  souls  in  one,  which  grow 
In  sweetness  and  in  grace,  as  onward  flow 
The  streams  of  Time  to  the  eternal  strand. 
—The  haunted  palace,  wrapt  in  rayless  gloom, 
In  ruin  lies  beneath  the  stones  which  mark 
Its  dreary  chambers,  desolate  and  dark; 

Its  luminous  windows  shed  their  light  no  more; 
But  thou  at  last  hath  found  thy  Ulalume, 
And  standest  face  to  face  with  thy  Lenore. 


•y    7    / 

\y 


7  he  Peaks  of  the  Ideal 

Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke 
(Translation) 


HIGH  to  our  lifted  eyes  the  tall  peaks  seem; 
But  when  by  rugged  paths  with  toil  extreme 
And  one  sharp  struggle  we  have  reached  the  crest, 
Another  rises  higher  far  whose  breast, 
The  while  we  struggled  up  the  first  ascent, 
Lay  all  unseen  with  clouds  and  shadow  blent. 
Then  fiercely  set,  we  ceaseless  strive  and  climb, 
But  ever,  ever  higher  far,  Sublime 
Ideal,  do  thy  tow'ring  ramparts  rise, 
And  as  we  climb,  still  lift  to  higher  skies. 

•8 


]f 


Elbert  Hubbard 


Nathaniel  Ferguson 


INTO  the  sea  s  soft  arms 

Thy  peerless  form  hath  passed, 

Imbedded  in  the  deep 
Thy  rest  is  sweet  at  last. 


Thy  trustful  soul  serene 

Knew  naught  of  fear  nor  frown, 
The  soothing  swoon  of  sleep 

Hath  won  thee  fame's  renown. 


So  strong  through  still  and  storm; 

Thy  part  the  hero's  part : 
All  honor  now  is  thine; 

Immortal  now  thou  art. 


The  Millionaire 

George  P.  Bent 


HEAVE  half  a  brick  at  the  duffer  I 

Give  him  a  lash  with  the  knout — 
Make  all  his  interests  suffer; 

Rip  him  up  inside  and  out. 
Ruin  his  good  reputation, 

Give  him  a  jolt  and  a  scare; 
Drag  him  from  off  his  high  station — 

He  's  only  a  millionaire. 

Cover  his  name  with  black  scandal, 

Deep  from  Beersheba  to  Dan; 
Give  him  a  thorough  manhandle; 

Smirch  him  whenever  you  can. 
Trip  him  in  every  venture; 

Catch  him  with  pitfall  and  snare; 
Drown  him  with  cynical  censure — 

He  's  only  a  millionaire. 

Call  him  a  thief  and  a  liar; 

Greet  him  with  gibes  and  with  jeers. 
Drag  down  the  name  of  his  sire; 

Snub  his  grandmother  with  sneers; 
Whisper  the  vile  gossip  and  rumor — 

None  of  his  family  spare — 
Treat  his  achievement  with  "  humor  "- 

He  's  only  a  millionaire. 

Cater  to  every  excitement 

Likely  to  tarnish  his  name, 
Try  to  secure  his  indictment, 

If  he  's  a  fellow  of  fame; 
Fill  him  a  poisonous  chalice, 

Mixture  of  wormwood  and  care, 
Up  with  all  envy  and  malice — 

Down  with  the  millionaire! 


'"Moriiuri  Salutamus' 

Ernest  Crosby 


HAIL,  Custom,  we,  about  to  die,  salute  thee! 

Behold  us,  thy  slaves  and  prisoners, 

Bound  and  swathed  in  ponderous  frock-coats  and  satin 

linings,  in  new-creased  trousers,  in  starched  cambric 

shirts  and  silken  underclothing; 
Shackled  in  stiff  collars  and  wristbands,  in  gold  chains 

and  finger-rings; 
Helpless  in  patent-leather  boots,  tight-fitting  gloves  and 

hard-rimmed  top-hats; 
Decorated,  like  victims  for  sacrifice,  with  flowers  in  button- 

hole, and  rich  scarfs  and  jeweled  scarf-pins; 
Forced  to  talk  and  to  walk,  to  get  up  and  sit  down  thus 

and  so; 
Made  to  eat  and  drink  all  the  unwholesome  confections 

and  concoctions  of  East  and  West  ; 
Shut  out  from  the  cornfield  and  market-garden  and  work- 

shop, where  men  really  live; 
Doomed  to  lifelong  impotence  by  a  thousand  irrevocable 

laws; 

All  man's  work  done  for  us  whether  we  will  or  no; 
Forbidden  to  clean  our  own  boots  or  put  on  our  own 

overcoats; 

Guarded  by  despotic  butlers  and  valets  and  housemaids; 
Looking  out  of  our  windows,  hopelessly  bored,  at  the 

genuine  life  going  by  in  which  we  may  not  share; 
Yawning  listlessly  in  stifling  rooms, 
Weighed  down  with  aimless  bric-a-brac  and  rugs,  with 

redundant   easy-chairs,   picture-frames   and   uphol- 

stery, with  all  sorts  of  dust-gathering  rubbish; 
Our  women  even  more  deeply  sunk  in  the  glittering  slough 

than  ourselves; 
Nerves  snapping,  digestion  spoiled,  temper  irretrievably 

lost,  soul  unheard  from  this  many  a  long  year! 

*Courtety  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


Hail,  Custom,  we,  about  to  die,  salute  thee! 

About  to  die?  Nay,  we  are  dead  already; 

These  splendid  halls  are  our  sepulcher. 

All  here  is  death,  and  the  life  is  make-believe; 

These  are  but  pictures  of  life  traced  on  the  walls  for  the 

eye-sockets  of  mummies  to  stare  at  in  the  eternal  dark. 
We  are  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  laid  in  a  gilded  sar- 
cophagus; 
We  strain  at  ankle  and  knee,  at  wrist  and  elbow,  but  in 

vain  ; 
We  would  move  our  lips,  but  our  tongue  cleaves  to  the  roof 

of  our  mouth. 
Death,  death,  death;  there  is  a  smell  of  frankincense  and 

spices,  but  under  it  all  we  are  rotting  slowly  away. 
Oh  for  a  breath  of  mountain  air,  an  hour  of  God-given 

outdoor  toil! 
Oh  for  a  voice  of  command  from  heaven,  crying,  "  Lazarus, 

come  forth!  " 


The  Sea 

Cora  Bremer 


THE  sea,  grave,  full  of  menace,  calling  men 

Through  the  dread  power  of  its  mighty  breadth 

To  play  the  game  of  Chance  and  Circumstance! 

Throwing  their  all,  their  now,  their  name,  their  wealth- 

And  all  they  hold  as  sacred  unto  death, 

Upon  its  breast.  Not  counting  cost,  or  days 

That  wither  hearts,  which  (like  the  beacon-light 

Upon  some  crag,  all  leafless,  near  a  shore 

Where  all  is  green  and  sweet),  keep  lonely  watch, 

Awaiting  'mid  the  storms,  and  blinding  wrath 

Of  sea-things,  some  poor  mate,  in  long-forgotten  bark! 


Spread  Out! 

Eric  A.  Darling 


IN  politics  I  'm  a  —  never  mind, 

And  you  are  a  —  /  dont  care. 
But,  anyway,  I  am  rather  inclined 

To  suspect  we  are  both  unfair; 
For  I  have  called  you  a  coward  and  slave 
And  you  have  dubbed  me  a  fool  and  knave. 
(Yet,  perhaps  I  was  right,  for  you  surely  abused 
The  right  of  free  speech  in  the  names  you  used!} 

In  business  you  figure  —  a  profit,  I  guess, 
And  I  charge  you  —  as  much  as  I  dare, 
And  I  grumble  that  you  ought  to  do  it  for  less, 

And  you  ask  if  my  price  is  fair. 
But  if  I  sold  your  goods  and  you  sold  mine, 
/  doubt  if  the  prices  would  much  decline. 
(Though  I  must  insist  that  I  think  I  see 
Where  you  'd  still  have  a  little  advantage  of  me!) 

In  religion  you  are  a  —  who  cares  what? 

And  I  am  a  —  what  's  the  odds? 
So  why  have  I  sneered  at  your  holiest  thought, 

And  why  have  you  jeered  at  my  gods? 
For,  thinking  it  over,  I  'm  sure  we  two 
Were  doing  the  best  that  we  honestly  knew. 
(Though,  of  course,  I  can  not  escape  a  touch 
Of  suspicion,  that  you  never  knew  too  much!) 


94 


Cynara 

Ernest  Dowson 


LAST  night,  ah,  yesternight,  betwixt  her  lips  and  mine 
There  fell  thy  shadow,  Cynara !  Thy  breath  was  shed 
Upon  my  soul  between  the  kisses  and  the  wine; 
And  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  I  was  desolate  and  bowed  my  head : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

All  night  upon  mine  heart  I  felt  her  warm  heart  beat, 
Night-long  within  mine  arms  in  love  and  sleep  she  lay; 
Surely  the  kisses  of  her  bought  red  mouth  were  sweet; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

When  I  awoke  and  found  the  dawn  was  gray: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

I  have  forgot  much,  Cynara!  gone  with  the  wind, 
Flung  roses,  roses,  riotously  with  the  throng, 
Dancing,  to  put  thy  pale  lost  lilies  out  of  mind; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  all  the  time,  because  the  dance  was  long: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

I  cried  for  madder  music  and  for  stronger  wine, 
But  when  the  feast  is  finished  and  the  lamps  expire, 
Then  falls  thy  shadow,  Cynara!  the  night  is  thine; 
And  I  am  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  hungry  for  the  lips  of  my  desire : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 


Christmastide 

Frank  Henry  Doolittle 


THE  night  falls  bitter  cold,  the  stars  shine  bright  above, 
The  streets  are  overful  of  eager,  moving  life, 
Each  beaming  face  bespeaks  a  wealth  of  joy  and  hope, 
And  ev'ry  heart  o'erflows  with  charity  and  peace — 
Thus  bards  for  ay  have  sung  a  happy  Christmastide. 
But  now,  alas!  the  golden  days  are  long  since  fled, 
And  charity,  and  peace,  and  joy  are  laid  aside, 
Leaving  us  grosser  passions,  meaner  qualities: 
For  poetry,  grim  prose;  while  malice,  envy,  hate, 
Shame  and  remorse  attend  the  modern  Christmastide, 

The  gaily-lighted  windows  halt  our  lagging  pace, 
For  children  wait  at  home  with  faith  in  Santa  Glaus — 
A  faith  we  dare  not  shake,  since  innocence  is  rare— 
And  there  are  other  children,  too,  who  claim  our  thoughts, 
Children  whose  darksome  lives  know  naught  of  good  Saint 

Nick. 

Then,  as  we  pass  the  doors,  the  silks  and  satins  swish 
Against  the  tattered  garments  of  poor  Lazarus— 
Once  rich  himself,  perchance;  a  rev'ler  'mid  the  rest- 
Listlessly  looking  here  upon  the  glitt'ring  toys, 
Wond'ring  where  next  he  'II  turn  to  win  his  children  bread. 
Near  to  him  lurks  his  fellow,  one  whose  sordid  hate 
And  envy  of  the  fortunate  have  warped  his  mind 
From  honorable  toil,  piercing  with  jaundiced  eye 
The  brittle  glass,  as  though  his  demon  prompted  him 
To  dash  his  fist  within  and  seize  the  sparkling  gems. 
Hard  by  the  lover  stands,  his  fascinated  gaze 
Riveted  on  his  rival,  there  within,  whose  wealth 
Is  lavished  with  free  hand  upon  his  ladylove: 
He  little  deems,  the  poor  one,  that  one  tender  word 
From  him  outweighs  his  rival's  very  weight  in  gold. 


As  in  review  they  pass:  more  marked  contrast  now 
Is  shown  than  at  less  festal  seasons  of  the  year. 
The  fact  remains  that  vaunted,  happy  Christmastide 
Doth  grow  less  merry  nowadays,  as  years  pass  by, 
Revealing  Christian  spirit  less,  while  selfish  thoughts, 
And  pomp,  and  vanity  more  rule  this  holiday. 


<n 


The  Scientist  Speaks 

Charles  Henry  Mackintosh 


FIRST,  I  abjure  all  dim  unreasoning  patter 
Wherewith  the  ignorant  befool  their  kind; 

Because  I  read  among  the  Laws  of  Matter 
The  limitations  of  the  human  mind. 

Then  I  will  not  believe,  till  I  have  cloven 
Into  the  very  heart  of  Law  and  Act; 

That  no  one  need  accept  what  I  have  proven 
Till  he  has  put  it  to  the  proof  of  Fact. 

Nor  will  I  let  the  teachings  of  another 
Absolve  me  from  my  task  of  finding  out, 

Just  as  I  will  not  force  upon  my  brother 
The  answer  I  have  made  to  mine  own  doubt. 

I  will  be  true  to  this,  though  all  may  doubt  me. 

I  will  write  on,  and  over,  every  sneer. 
So  will  I  build  my  Heaven  here  about  me 

And  live  my  life  within  it,  now  and  here. 


Stenogs 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 


I  TOO  rely  on  my  stenog 
To  frown  on  faulty  spelling, 

But  now  and  then  in  spells  she  spells 
In  manner  most  repelling. 

But  sometimes  too  she  sees  me  through 
With  forecasts  of  the  fashion, 

And  shows  me  how  by  shade  of  words 
To  best  express  my  passion. 

And  so  to  her  I  do  defer, 
As  you  may  well  conjecture, 

Nor  can  I  find  it  in  my  heart 
To  read  to  her  a  lecture. 

In  olden  days  the  writers  wrote 
With  quill  in  halting  measure, 

And  did  not  know,  for  weal  or  woe, 
Stenogs  to  be  a  pleasure. 

Today  we  talk  our  thoughts  to  girls, 

Who  never  weary  writing; 
And  plunk  the  product  to  the  press, 

With  promptness  quite  exciting. 

No  seas  of  ink  we  idly  spill 
Upon  the  snow-white  paper; 

Nor  think  of  sitting  up  at  night, 
To  write  by  burning  taper. 

But  now  erelong  we  'II  sing  our  song 

Into  the  Disk  de  Dido, 
And  give  it  to  the  Printer  straight, 

And  so  no  girls  need  stick  to. 


To  a  Clock 

Kate  Alexander  Lentz 


THOU  gold  and  shining  monitor  of  a  dear  friend's  love; 

Thou  dost  make  present  past,  and  future  present 

As  I  count  thy  strokes  — 

What  is  this  thing  called  Time? 

Older  it  is  than  all  the  ancient  space-held  worlds. 

Older  than  lofty  mountain-peaks;  than  mighty  oceans 

Rolling  on,  and  forever  hiding  the  secret  of  their  birth 

Low  down  in  their  unfathomed  deeps. 

The  age-eaten  pyramids  are  callow  in  their  youthfulness 

When  measured  by  its  hoary  age. 

The  gray,  unwatered  sands  of  the  boundless  desert 

Knew  it  in  their  infancy,  and  even  then  it  was  old. 

Old,  but  youthful  still  it  doth  remain  — 

Sole  thing  untouched  by  its  own  hand. 

Swift  it  is  as  the  wind  which  melts 

The  cold  caresses  of  the  ice-bound  North 

In  the  warm  kisses  of  the  tropic  seas  —  aye,  swifter. 

Silent  it  is  as  the  myriad  stars 

That  come  forth  nightly  in  the  silent  skies. 

All  the  armies  of  all  the  nations  can  not  turn  it  backward 

Or  change  it  from  its  predestined  course. 

Resistless,  relentless,  changeless,  it  flows  on  and  on 

Fearless  of  the  whither,  forgetful  of  the  whence. 

Could  I  but  catch  and  hold  thee,  Time, 

And  stay  thy  moment  of  supremest  joy 

How  I  should  worship  thee  I 

But  when  sorrow  spread  its  black  pall  upon  my  soul, 

Then  I  should  thank  thee  that  thou  wouldst  not  stay. 

And  so  with  all  thy  countless  brothers 

Of  all  the  worlds  that  have  been  and  that  are  to  be, 

I  bow  to  thy  dominion. 

What  art  thou,  Time? 


The  Cry  of  the  Little  Peoples* 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


THE  Cry  of  the  Little  Peoples  went  up  to  God  in  vain; 
The  Czech,  and  the  Pole,  and  the  Finn,  and  the  Schleswig 
Dane, 

We  ask  but  a  little  portion  of  the  green,  ambitious  earth; 
Only  to  sow  and  sing  and  reap  in  the  land  of  our  birth. 

We  ask  not  coaling-stations,  nor  ports  in  the  China  seas, 
We  leave  to  the  big  child-nations  such  rivalries  as  these. 

We  have  learned  the  lesson  of  time,  and  we  know  three 

things  of  worth; 
Only  to  sow  and  sing  and  reap  in  the  land  of  our  birth. 

0  leave  us  our  little  margins,  waste  ends  of  land  and  sea, 
A  little  grass,  and  a  hill  or  two,  and  a  shadowing  tree; 

0  leave  us  our  little  rivers  that  sweetly  catch  the  sky, 

To  drive  our  mills,  and  to  carry  our  wood,  and  to  ripple  by. 

Once  long  ago,  like  you,  with  hollow  pursuit  of  fame, 
We  filled  all  the  shaking  world  with  the  sound  of  our  name; 

But  now  we  are  glad  to  rest,  our  battles  and  boasting  done, 
Glad  just  to  sow  and  sing  and  reap  in  our  share  of  the  sun. 

Of  this  0  will  ye  rob  us — with  a  foolish  mighty  hand, 
Add,  with  such  cruel  sorrow,  so  small  a  land  to  your  land? 

So  might  a  boy  rejoice  him  to  conquer  a  hive  of  bees, 
Overcome  ants  in  battle — we  are  scarcely  more  mighty  than 
these — 

So  might  a  cruel  heart  hear  a  nightingale  singing  alone, 
And  say,  "  I  am  mighty!  See  how  the  singing  stops  with 
a  stone  1  " 

'Courtety  of  John  Lane  Co.,  owners  of  copyright. 


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Yea,  he  were  mighty  indeed,  mighty  to  crush  and  to  gain ; 
But  the  bee  and  the  ant  and  the  bird  were  the  mighty  of 
brain. 

And  what  shall  you  gain  if  you  take  us  and  bind  us  and 

beat  us  with  thongs, 
And  drive  us  to  sing  underground  in  a  whisper  our  sad 

little  songs? 

Forbid  us  the  very  use  of  our  heart's  own  nursery  tongue — 
7*  this  to  be  strong,  ye  nations,  is  this  to  be  strong? 

Your  vulgar  battles  to  fight,  and  your  grocery  conquests  to 

keep, 
For  this  shall  we  break  our  hearts,  for  this  shall  our  old 

men  weep? 

What  gain  in  the  day  of  battle — to  the  Russ,  to  the  German, 

what  gain, 
The  Czech,  and  the  Pole,  and  the.  Finn,  and  the  Schleswig 

Dane? 

The  Cry  of  the  Little  Peoples  goes  up  to  God  in  vain, 
For  the  world  is  given  over  to  the  cruel  sons  of  Cain; 

The  hand  that  would  bless  us  is  weak,  and  the  hand  that 

would  break  us  is  strong, 
And  the  power  of  pity  is  naught  but  the  power  of  a  song. 

The  dreams  that  our  fathers  dreamed  today  are  laughter 

and  dust, 
And  nothing  at  all  in  the  world  is  left  for  a  man  to  trust. 

Let  us  hope  no  more,  or  dream,  or  prophesy,  or  pray, 
For  the  iron  world  no  less  will  crash  on  its  iron  way; 

And  nothing  is  left  but  to  watch,  with  a  helpless,  pitying 

eye, 
The  kind  old  aims  for  the  world,  and  the  kind  old  fashions 

die. 


Fruition 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 


EVEN  the  field  must  feel  a  sense  of  pride 
When  all  the  grain  it  nourished  is  full-grown 
And  hides  its  scarred  brown  face  and  many  a  stone 

With  waving  beauty,  like  a  golden  tide. 

Surely  the  apple-tree's  old  boughs  flung  wide, 
Holding  the  ripened  fruit,  some  joy  have  known, 
And  the  evening-primrose  that  was  once  full-blown 

Knew  some  moth's  kiss  by  moonlight  ere  it  died. 

These  things  attained  the  end  for  which  they  came. 
Oh,  would  that  we  in  our  more  zealous  life 
Might  gain  the  thing  so  surely  that  we  sought, 
Might  ripen  soul  's  fruit  with  a  heavenly  flame, 
And  pare  the  red  rind  with  Truth  for  a  knife, 
And  see  the  pulp  within,  that  we  have  brought! 


The  Chatter  of  a  Death-Demon 


Stephen  Crane 


BLOOD  —  blood  and  torn  grass  — 

Had  marked  the  rise  of  his  agony  — 

This  line  hunter, 

The  gray-green  woods  impassive 

Had  watched  the  threshing  of  his  limbs. 

A  canoe  with  flashing  paddle, 

A  girl  with  soft,  searching  eyes, 

A  call  .-"John!" 


Come,  arise,  hunter  t 

Lift  your  gray  face ! 

Can  you  not  hear? 

The  chatter  of  a  death-demon  from  a  tree-top. 


102 


Martial  Music 

Coral  Thomas 


I  NEVER  heard  the  sound  of  martial  note 

When  a  small  child,  but  soon  —  unchecked  and  weak, 

The  blinding  tears  flowed  sadly  down  my  cheek, 

And  great  sobs  swelled  to  bursting  in  my  throat. 

I  scarce  had  years  enough  then,  to  devote 

To  solving  why  I  sorrowed.  Now  I  seek 

A  reason  why  the  whole  world  grows  not  meek 

And  tearful,  when  War's  crimson  banners  float, 

And  the  drums  beat,  as  down  the  dusty  street 

The  soldiers  march  in  solemn,  measured  tread; 

And  all  the  air  is  vibrant  with  the  cheer 

Of  martial  music.  Hark  !  'neath  booted  feet 

Sounds  the  dread  trampling  o'er  the  wounded  dead  — 

No  cheer!  but  moan  for  moan,  and  tear  for  tear. 


The  Ties  Fraternal 

George  Beebe 


FRIEND,  you  and  I  are  brothers,  stranger  still, 

All,  all  are  brothers  to  the  Infinite, 

Whom  love  and  truth  immutably  unite, 

With  such  a  nearness  that  the  human  will 

Is  master  of  a  destiny,  to  fill 

With  loveliness  and  the  glorious  light 

Of  reason.  In  the  soul's  sublimest  flight, 

No  bliss  imagined  can  surpass  the  thrill 

That  comes  from  the  reality,  that  God 

And  man  are  one,  in  this  great  brotherhood. 

And  to  the  concept  of  the  conscious  mind, 

No  blossom  springeth  from  the  silent  sod, 

No  bird-note  ringeth  through  the  sheltered  wood, 

But  that,  more  firm,  the  ties,  fraternal,  bind. 


The  Great  Obsession 

Bert  Letson  Taylor 


LADY  with  the  rampant  broom, 
Fixed  though  your  resolve  may  be, 

Harken  ere  you  clean  this  room 
To  a  word  or  two  from  me. 

Know  you  not  that  microbes  lurk 
Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

And  that  all  this  "  cleaning  "  work 
Simply  populates  the  air? 

Now  these  microbes  lie  asleep, 
Harmless,  in  a  thousand  nooks; 

Dormant,  where  the  dust  is  deep, 
Back  of  pictures,  back  of  books. 

Lady,  clean,  if  clean  you  must, 

But  I  say  beware  of  these 
Demons  lurking  in  the  dust, 

"  Pathogenic  entities." 

Oh,  the  many,  many  lives 

Ignorantly  cast  away 
By  our  dust-disturbing  wives 

Since  the  first  Spring  cleaning-day! 

Lady  with  the  cleaning-bee, 

You  are  much  too  young  to  die. 

Take  a  timely  tip  from  me  : 
Let  the  sleeping  microbe  lie! 


The  Daredevil 

Richard  Wightman 


TO  snap  the  chip  from  off  Fate's  shoulder,  nifty-like, 
Just  with  your  thumb  and  your  long  center-finger,  so; 
To  dare  the  little  devils,  all  of  them,,  to  do  their  worst 
And  then  sit  by  and  watch  them  break  their  bloomin'  necks 
A-doin'  it,  while  down  your  own  flows  the  good,  glad  wine 

of  victory ; 
To  skip  a  silver  dollar  on  the  waves  as  if  it  were  a  mere 

fiat  stone 

And  see  it  sink  at  last  to  God  knows  where 
And  care  not,  only  so  long  's  you  skipped  it; 
To  see  the  other  fellow  pitch  kerplunk  into  the  nice  black 

mud  which  he 's  stirred  up  for  you  ; 
To  send  a  good  loud  haw-haw  ringing  down  the  nave 
Of  some,  old  worship-place  where  pale,  plucked  piety 
Sits  shivering  upon  a  marble  saint ; 
To  turn  the  blessed  proverbs  upside  down 
And  prove  that  only  thus  may  they  be  lived  by  truly; — 
All  this,  and  more  besides,  may  not  be  just  exactly 
What  I  'd  call  my  symphony,  but  all  the  same  it 's  an 

awful  lot  of 
Real,  resounding  fun. 


Nature  s  Foundlings 

James  Harcourt  West 


WHEN  lush  Marsh- Marigolds  their  bloom  unfold 

In  moisty  vales  where  April  brooklets  run, 

They  lift  their  yellow  radiance  to  the  sun 

In  joyance  never  dreamed  by  market  gold. 

Near    them   frail    Bloodroot — meek,    though    sanguine- 

stoled — 

Her  white  plumes  blossoming  from  juices  dun — 
Playfully  trembles  at  the  mocking  fun 
Of  Cranesbill  shuddering  as  if  ghostly-old. 
I  laughed  with  them  today  on  sunny  banks 
O'erhung  by  hemlocks  widely  topping  all, 
And  raised  my  own  glad  song  in  quiet  thanks 
That  on  this  busy,  phantom-chasing  ball 
One  soul  at  least  was  free  to  join  the  ranks 
Of  Nature's  foundlings  beyond  city  watt. 


Freedom  of  Nature 

James  Thomson 

l? 

/  CARE  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny : 
You  can  not  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace; 
You  can  not  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face ; 
You  can  not  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve : 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibers  brace, 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave : 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave. 


Light  and  Life 

Joseph  Blanco  White 


MYSTERIOUS  Light!  When  our  first  parent  knew 

Thee  from  report  divine  and  heard  thy  name, 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 

Yet,  'neath  the  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  seething  flame, 

Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 

And,  lo!  Creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun,  or  who  could  find, 

While  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  lay  revealed, 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad  'st  us  blind  ? 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife? 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life? 


Stars 

Lord  Byron 


YE  stars !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires — 't  is  to  be  forgiven 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a 
star. 


My  Wife 

William  J.  Dawson 


SHE  is  my  wife,  and  all  the  livelong  day 

I  think  of  her, 
And  in  the  deep  oblivion  of  the  night 

I  dream  of  her. 

When  she  is  near  a  sweet  and  tender  calm 
Falls  softly  on  my  heart  with  soothing  balm, 
Like  the  murmured  sound  of  an  angel's  psalm 

Pleading  for  man. 

She  is  my  life,  if  love  is  life's  author, 

Guardian  and  friend, 
Guiding  my  feet  from  the  pitfalls  of  woe 

Even  to  the  end. 

When  she  is  far  my  heart  is  sore-oppressed, 
And  sadly  beats  against  my  weary  breast, 
Like  prisoned  bird  that  seeks  its  distant  nest 

With  restless  wing. 

She  is  my  soul,  if  from  the  soul  there  leaps 

That  holy  fire 
That  scorches  at  its  birth  the  poisoned  glance 

Of  base  desire. 

She  lights  me,  as  of  old,  o'er  desert  sand 
And  'luring  vales  of  sense  was  lit  that  band 
That  followed  Moses  to  the  promised  land 

Of  rest  and  peace. 

Ah,  wife  of  mine,  my  life,  my  soul,  my  all, 

Be  ever  near. 
May  chilling  shadow  of  thy  loss  ne'er  fall 

Upon  me  here; 

But  down  the  opening  aisles  of  future  years 
Be  by  my  side  to  quell  the  rising  tears 
That  flow  from  hidden  springs  of  doubts  and  fears 

Within  my  breast. 


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108 


The  Days  That  Are  To  Be 

John  Addington  Symonds 


THESE  things  shall  be!  a  loftier  race  than  e'er  the  world 

has  known  shall  rise 
With  flame  of  freedom  in  their  souls,  and  light  of  science 

in  their  eyes. 

They  shall  be  gentle,  brave,  and  strong,  to  spill  no  drop  of 

blood,  but  dare 
All  that  may  plant  man's  lordship  firm  on  earth,  and  fire, 

and  sea,  and  air. 

Nation  with  nation,  land  with  land,  unharmed  shall  live 

as  comrades  free  ; 
In  every  heart  and  brain  shall  throb  the  pulse  of  one 

fraternity. 

New  arts  shall  bloom  of  loftier  mold,  and  mightier  music 

thrill  the  skies, 
And  every  life  shall  be  a  song,  when  all  the  earth  is  paradise. 

These  things  —  they  are  no  dreams  —  shall  be  for  happier 

men  when  we  are  gone. 
These  golden  days  for  them  shall  dawn  transcending  aught 

we  gaze  upon. 


The  True  Pathos 

Robert  Burns 


TO  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 
That  's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 


In  Re  Villon 

John  D.  Swain 


FRANCOIS  VILLON,  being  about  to  die,  a  worthy  friar 
would  fain  have  shriven  him,  and  did  earnestly  exhort  him 
that  he  would  confess  him  at  this  time,  of  those  acts  of  his 
life  which  he  did  regret. 

Villon  bade  him  return  yet  again  when  he  might  have  had 
time  to  bethink  him  of  his  sins.  Upon  the  good  father's 
return,  Villon  was  dead;  but  by  his  side  were  the  following 
verses,  his  last,  wherein  he  set  forth  those  things  which  he 
did  regret.  Whereat  the  friar  was  sore  grieved,  and  hid 
them  away  among  the  manuscripts  of  his  abbey,  showing 
them  to  no  man  ;  yet  were  they  found  in  some  wise  by  THE 
FRA.  The  name  of  the  friar  and  the  very  place  where  stood 
the  abbey  are  forgot;  but  the  verses  remain.  These  then  be 
the  lines  : 

I,  FRANCOIS  VILLON,  ta'en  at  last 
To  the  rude  bed  where  all  must  lie, 
Fain  would  forget  the  turbid  past 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  die. 
Would  I  be  shrived?  Ah  —  can  I  tell? 
My  sins  but  trifles  seem  to  be, 
Nor  worth  the  dignity  of  Hell  ; 
If  not,  then  ill  avails  it  me 
To  count  them  one  and  all  —  and  yet  — 
There  be  some  things  which  I  regret! 

The  sack  of  abbeys,  many  a  brawl, 
A  score  of  knife-thrusts  in  the  dark, 
Forced  oft  by  Fate  against  the  wall, 
And  years  in  prison,  cold  and  stark  — 
These  crimes  and  pains  seem  far  away 
Now  that  I  come  at  length  to  die; 
'T  is  idle  for  the  Past  to  pray, 
'  T  is  hopeless  for  the  Past  to  sigh  ; 
These  are  a  troubled  dream  —  and  yet 
For  them  I  have  but  scant  regret! 


! 


The  toil  my  mother  had  to  know 
What  years  I  lay  in  gyves  for  debt; 
A  pretty  song  heard  years  ago, 
When,  I  know  not;  where,  I  forget; 
The  crust  I  once  kept  for  my  own 
(Though  all  too  scant  for  my  poor  use) ; 
The  friend  I  left  to  die  alone, 
(Perdie!  The  watchmen  pressed  us  close!} 
Trifles  against  my  crimes  to  set! 
Yet  these  are  all  which  I  regret. 

Captains  and  cutthroats  not  a  few, 
And  maidens  fair  of  many  a  clime 
Have  named  me  friend  in  the  wild  past 
Whenas  we  wallowed  in  the  slime; 
Gamblers  and  rogues  and  clever  thieves, 
And  unfrocked  priests,  a  sorry  crew — 
(How  stubbornly  the  memory  cleaves 
To  all  who  have  befriended  you!) 
I  drain  a  cup  to  them,  and  yet — 
Not  these  the  friends  whom  I  regret! 

My  foundered  horse,  who  died  for  me 
(Nor  whip  nor  spur  were  his,  I  ween!) 
That  day  the  hangman  looked  to  see 
Poor  Villon  earth  and  sky  between! 
A  mongrel  cur  who  shared  my  lot 
Three  bitter  winters  on  the  Isle : 
He  held  the  rabble  off,  God  wot, 
One  time  I  cheated  in  the  deal. 
'T  was  but  an  instant,  but  I  fled 
Down  a  vile  alley  known  to  me — 
There  in  the  garbage  he  lay  dead; 
The  gamblers  raged — but  I  was  free! 
Humble,  poor  brutes  at  best;  and  yet — 
They  are  the  friends  whom  I  regret! 

And  once  the  lilies  were  ablow 
Through  all  the  sunny  fields  of  France; 


/  marked  one  whiter  than  the  snow, 
And  would  have  gathered  it,  perchance, 
Had  not  some  trifle  I  forget, 
A  Bishop's  loot,  a  cask  of  wine 
Purloined  from  some  auberge — a  bet — 
Distracted  this  wild  head  of  mine; 
A  childish  fancy  this,  and  yet — 
It  is  this  thing  which  I  regret! 

Again,  I  rode  through  Picardy 
What  time  the  vine  was  in  the  bud; 
A  little  maiden  smiled  on  me, 
I  might  have  kissed  her,  an  I  would! 
I  've  known  a  thousand  maidens  since, 
And  many  have  been  kind  to  me — 
/  've  never  seen  one  quite  so  fair 
As  she,  that  day  in  Picardy; 
Ashes  of  roses  these,  and  yet — 
They  are  the  things  which  I  regret! 

One  perfect  lily  grew  for  me, 

And  blossomed  on  another's  breast; 

Others  have  clasped  the  little  hands 

Whose  rosy  palms  I  might  have  pressed : 

So  as  I  die,  my  wasted  youth 

Mocks  my  dim  eyes  and  fading  breath — 

Still,  I  have  lived  I  And,  having  lived 

That  much  is  mine — /  mock  at  Death. 

I  should  confess,  you  say.  But  yet — 

Only  for  Life  have  I  regret! 

L'  Envoi 

0  bubbles  of  the  vanished  wine 
To  which  my  lips  were  never  set! 
0  lips  that  dimpled  close  to  mine, 
Whose  ruddy  warmth  I  never  met! 
Father,  poor  trifles  these,  and  yet — 
They  are  the  things  which  I  regret! 


\\ 

k 

h 


112 


Consolation 

Joseph  Leiser 


SCANT  love  we  showed  him  when  he  died 

Because  we  wept  so  loud  : 
Our  grief  was  shamed  by  every  tear 

Our  eyes  dropped  on  his  shroud. 

But  quick  we  were  to  bow  our  heads 

And  ever  our  eyes  were  dim, 
But  not  a  sigh  bemoaned  the  death 

Of  all  that  we  had  killed  in  him  : 

He  craved  the  boon  of  our  assent 

In  enterprise  of  large  design; 
The  cheer  /•  speed  him  up  the  slope 

To  deeds  illustrious  and  fine; 

What  he  would  be  was  long  denied; 

When  he  would  rise,  we  held  him  down; 
And  how  we  chuckled,  when  dismayed, 

He  played  for  us  the  fool  and  clown. 

We  never  stayed  his  upturned  hand; 

Nor  guided  his  uncertain  feet  ; 
The  thoughts  he  breathed  made  merriment 

For  all  the  idlers  of  the  street. 

We  jeered  him  when  he  tried  to  reach 
The  precious  treasures  of  his  soul; 

And  how  we  laughed,  when  tired  and  spent, 
He  fell  before  his  uncrossed  goal. 

We  mourn  him  now,  indeed  we  grieve, 

And  ever  our  eyes  are  dim; 
But  never  a  sigh  bemoans  the  death 

Of  all  that  daily  died  in  him. 


Soldiers'  Faces 

Mrs.  A.  J.  Tollman 


WE  could  not  sound  a  stentorian  note 

Of  martial  beat  .....  that  thrilled  the  wakened  street. 
We  only  loved  the  passing  Khaki  coat  ..... 

The  resonance  of  countless  thudding  feet. 
Their  eyes,  and  eyes  —  their  flashing  eyes  we  saw! 

Their  eager  smiles,  the  passerby  to  greet. 
Their  flashing  eyes,  their  eager  smiles,  we  saw 

And  all  those  front-turned  faces  stern  and  sweet. 

We  could  not  sing  of  winged  victory 

Though  exaltation  filled  us  in  the  main  ; 
For  while  we  cheered,  came  welling  smartingly 

A  choking  something,  stinging  lids  and  brain. 
Their  eyes,  and  eyes  —  their  flashing  eyes  we  saw  ! 

Their  eager  smiles  and  brave,  in  warmth  or  rain; 
Through  flashing  eyes,  through  eager  smiles,  we  saw 

Those  upturned  faces  sweet  and  stern  again. 


To  the  Jersey  Lily 

Joaquin  Miller 


IF  all  God  's  world  a  garden  were, 

And  women  were  but  flowers. 

If  men  were  bees  that  busied  there, 

Through  endless  summer  hours, 

0  I  would  hum  God's  garden  through 

For  honey  till  I  came  to  you. 

*Courte»y  of  Han  Wagner  Publithing  Co. 


Abraham  Lincoln  at  Gettysburg 


(November  79,  1863) 
Harrison  D.  Mason 


A  SILENCE  there  expectant,  meaning, 
And  then  a  voice  clear-pitched  and  tense; 

A  thousand  hearers,  forward-leaning, 
Were  in  the  thrall  of  eloquence, 

He  saw  the  graves  of  heroes  sleeping, 
He  saw  men's  eyes  suffused  and  dim; 

A  triumph  great,  a  nation  weeping, 
Found  true  expression  there  in  him. 

Not  often  in  a  nation's  story, 

Such  words  supreme^  such  manhood  fine; 
He  gave  that  day  our  grief  and  glory 

The  dignity  of  things  divine. 

Brief,  so  brief — the  words  were  falling 
Ere  men  had  time  to  note  and  weigh; 

As  if  again  the  gods  were  calling 
From  some  Homeric  yesterday. 

No  impulse  this,  no  actor  speaking 

Of  thoughts  which  came  by  happy  chance; 

The  man,  the  place,  were  God's  own  seeking; 
The  words  are  our  inheritance. 

A  pause,  a  hush,  a  wonder  growing: 
A  prophet's  vision,  understood; 

In  that  strange  spell  of  his  bestowing, 

They  dreamed,  with  him,  of  Brotherhood. 


Church  Bells 

Frank  Robbins 


n 


IN  the  plaza  brilliant  oleanders  bloom; 
Soft-eyed  madonnas  o'er  their  ninas  croon; 
Citrons  and  limes  perfume  the  languid  air  — 
With  bright-hued  parrots  darting  here  and  there. 

But  for  these  who  care  a  dam 

That  hear  the  bells  of  Culiacan? 

From  the  car  eel  a  silver  -noted  bugle  sounds; 

The  sandaled  sentinel  sharp  his  clanging  musket  grounds, 

The  beggars  plead  for  alms  in  Jesu's  name; 

Whilst  red-lipped  putas  flaunt  their  scarlet  shame. 

But  for  these  who  care  a  dam 

That  hear  the  bells  of  Culiacan? 

Luscious  tequilla  cooled  by  Sierra  Madre  snow  — 
A  rhymsters  ready  lie,  as  any  one  will  know. 
Fragrant  puros  rolled  at  Tepic,  or  Vera  Cruz, 
Are  ready  ever  for  the  smoker's  use. 

But  for  these  who  care  a  dam 

That  hear  the  bells  of  Culiacan? 

The  Cathedral's  grand  facade  and  lofty  spires 
Are  all  the  devotee's  calm  soul  desires  — 
Sweet,  mantillaed,  swaying,  graceful  devotees  — 
Through  tapering  fingers  drawing  their  black  rosaries, 

But  for  these  who  care  a  dam 

That  hear  the  bells  of  Culiacan? 

Wide-winged  zapilotes  soar  above; 

From  woodland  comes  the  mournful  cooing  of  the  dove; 

The  lavenderas  splash  the  babbling  streams  — 

A  perfect  tropic-picture  —  drawn  in  dreams. 

But  for  that  who  care  a  dam 

That  hear  the  bells  of  Culiacan? 


Those  jangling  bells — those  cracked  beUs — 

Those  tocsins  of  a  thousand  hells — 

Madly  rung  at  any  hours 

From  their  nasty  whitewashed  towers — 
A  constant  dirge  to  that  soul  damned 
Who  raised  those  bells  in  Culiacan. 


Good-Night,  Daddy ! 

George  Beebe 


GOOD-NIGHT,  daddy! 
Chime  the  cadent  voices 
Of  my  lass  and  laddie, 
And  my  heart  rejoices 
To  its  fullest  measure 
As  I  feel  the  kisses 
Of  each  darling  treasure. 
Who  such  rapture  misses, 
Knows  not  well  what  bliss  is. 

Good-night,  daddy! 
When  the  play  is  over, 
With  each  face  and  paddie 
Clean  and  fresh  as  clover. 
Never  a  song  as  sweet  is 
Caroled  through  the  gloaming, 
Never  a  spell  as  fleet  is 
Through  the  whole  life's  roaming, 
As  this  hour  of  homing. 


Tolstoy 

Henry  S.  Saxe 


HIS  end  has  come,  as  it  must  come  to  all, 

And  he  is  dead,  the  brother  of  all  men, 

Who  saw  so  far  beyond  our  blinded  Jcen, 
And  heard  the  trumpet  of  the  future  call 
The  sons  of  freedom  to  throw  off  their  thrall. 

Righteous  and  brave  and  strong,  his  voice  and  pen 

Were  given  to  his  trodden  brethren  when 

Hedged  round  they  were  as  by  a  prison-wall! 

The  czar  may  die — another  takes  his  place, 
Perplexed,  misguided,  fearful  of  his  fate, 

And  deeming  life  a  thing  of  doubts  and  fears; 
But  thou,  0  Tolstoy!  showed  the  world  the  grace 
And  beauty  of  our  life,  were  we  but  great 

Of  heart  and  soul,  and  labored  through  our  years! 


The  Butterfly 

Cora  Bremer 


OH ,  fluttering  velvet-spotted  thing! 
Seduced  from  fields,  where  spangled  bees, 
And  starry  dew-filled  violets, 
In  wantonness,  give  to  the  breeze 
Their  sweetness  and  shy  confidence! 
I  crave  a  gift,  thy  dainty  wing! 
And  Chance  as  guide  to  happiness, 
In  land  where  jeweled  butterflies 
And  bees  and  violets  caress, 
And  know  no  World,  content  to  kiss! 


118 


Summer 

Carl  Nelson 


LA  Y  of  the  lark  and  the  linnet 
Singing  their  solos  of  Summer  — 
Glow  of  the  glades  that  are  gleaming  — 
Tang  of  the  turbulent  torrent  — 
Shimmer  of  sun  through  the  shade-trees- 
Magic,  mysterious  moonbeams  — 
Boisterous  broil  of  the  brooklet  — 
Fields  full  of  flowers,  the  fairies 
Bursting  from  brookside  and  bowers  — 
Riot  of  robins  and  roses  — 
Rush  of  the  rain  on  the  river  — 
Splendors  of  summer-night  sunsets  — 
Thus  by  the  thoughts  that  are  teeming 
I  'm  swept  by  the  saga  of  Summer, 
Flushed  with  the  fill  of  my  fancy, 
Drunk  with  the  drink  of  my  dreaming. 


In  Scorn  of  Consequence 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


SELF-REVERENCE,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 

Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncalled  for},  but  to  live  by  law, 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence. 


A  Dream  of  the  Death  of  God 

Edwards  Davis 


LAST  night  I  dreamed  that  God  was  dead, 

And  every  soul  alive 
Was  ruled  by  wanton  Hell  instead, 

With  whom  each  soul  must  strive. 

Ten  million  blades  upraised  with  hate, 
Had  brought  earth's  Sovereign  low, 

To  feel  the  pain  of  mortal  fate, 
Which  even  He  would  know. 

I  dreamed  I  felt  His  body  crushed, 

In  universal  pain, 
And  every  sound  on  earth  was  hushed, 

When  mankind's  God  was  slain. 

I  thought  I  saw  the  vacant  Throne, 
Where  Heaven's  Host  lay  dead; 
The  Glorified  had  died  alone  — 

And  Love  from  earth  had  fled. 
*  *  * 

No  flower  bloomed  amid  its  leaves, 

No  amorous  perfume  blew, 
To  kiss  grief's  everlasting  wreaths, 

And  each  I  dreamed  I  knew. 

I  thought  all  Time  could  not  efface 

The  never-ending  death 
Of  worlds,  in  endlessness  of  space, 

Through  which  I  gasped  for  breath. 

The  holy  stars  fell  from  on  high, 

Far  from  their  olden  light; 
Aghast,  I  saw  my  own  soul  die, 

And  face  abysmal  night. 

Then!  I  beheld  earth's  dead  God  rise, 
Above  the  cosmic  pyre, 


120 


Which  swept  across  the  ancient  skies, 

With  all  the  spheres  afire. 

*  *  * 

Lo!  I  have  wakened  from  my  dream, 

And  seem  to  understand, 
The  tragic  mystery,  supreme, 

Is  Destiny's  demand. 

Calm  courage  be  our  ample  shield, 

Let  no  man  be  afraid; 
Be  our  own  shores  the  battlefield, 

If  so  God's  plans  are  laid. 

Here,  bold,  prepared,  let  us  wait, 

Until  our  share  is  known, 
Though  we  may  stand  before  Hell's  gate, 

Or  kneel  before  God's  throne. 

He  shall  not  fail,  who  is  our  God, 

Nor  shall  He  cease  to  reign, 
For  all  shall  pass  beneath  His  rod, 

Who  in  my  dream  was  slain. 

*  *  * 

Hail  I  Nevermore  shall  blade  of  steel 
Pierce  through  God 's  deathless  heart, 

When  every  soul  on  earth  shall  feel 
Himself  of  God  a  part. 

The  wine  of  peace  is  red  as  lips, 
When  burnished  cups  are  raised, 

And  victory  of  rapture  sips, 

Where  God 's  decrees  are  praised. 

A  hundred  wars!  Oh,  fleeting  breath! 

A  thousand  years!  A  day! 
And  where  shall  be  the  sting  of  death, 

When  all  our  dreams  are  clay? 

We  are  as  dust  upon  the  sky, 

As  mist  upon  the  sea; 
And  each  of  us  on  earth  must  die 

To  know — the  Mystery! 


Wirigs 

Charlton  Lawrence  Edholm 


THE  hand  of  man,  emerging  from  the  mist 

Of  primal  ages  was  a  hairy  fist, 

All  blood-bedabbled  ;  for  the  hand  had  killed 

Before  it  learned  to  sow  and  reap  and  build. 

So  each  new  tool  was  but  a  weapon,  fit 

To  add  new  terrors  to  the  blow  of  it. 

The  first  rude  axe  was  formed  for  bloody  deed, 

Split  skulls  before  it  served  the  builders'  need. 

And  thus  through  ages  ri+ns  the  tale  :  by  worst 

Of  uses  is  the  new-found  tool  accurst. 

Yet  we  believe  what  prophets  words  record 

That  into  plowshares  men  shall  beat  the  sword. 

For  centuries  we  stood  upon  the  edge 

Of  space,  and  yearned,  while  sparrows  from  the  hedge 

Took  flight  and  taunted  us,  "  That  I  had  wings!  " 

!  'Mid  stormy  music,  thus  the  Psalmist  sings, 

"  Then  would  I  fly  away  and  be  at  rest." 

And  lo,  the  wings  are  ours,  a  gift,  the  best 

The  genius  of  our  race  has  forged  ;  a  tool 

Fit  for  our  eager  age.  What  says  the  fool, 

The  war-brute?  "  This  is  mine,  for  brawls  and  strife 

As  hawk-wings  are  the  hawk's  —  for  taking  life." 

Well,  claim  them,  War  God,  use  them  till  the  race 

Will  kill  for  you  no  more.  What  narrow  space 

Holds  man  today  apart  from  brother  man, 

A  range  of  rock,  a  river,  or  a  span 

Of  channel;  and  our  wings  shall  overleap 

These  dwarfish  landmarks.  Then  what  king  shall  keep 

His  folk  from  merging  with  humanity 

As  waters  intermingle  in  the  sea? 

Sail  forth,  winged  ArgSnauts  of  trackless  air, 
And  as  upon  your  homeward  course  you  fare 
Bring  heav'nly  treasure.  Neither  gold  nor  steel 
Nor  gross  and  earthly  wealth  weight  your  light  keel; 
Man's  Brotherhood,  bring  that  as  Golden  Fleece 
On  sun-blest  wings  bright  harbingers  of  peace. 


122 


The  Sun  Speaks 

Samuel  Quinn 


/  AM  the  sun. 

I  shed  on  earth  my  fervent  rays, 

And  fruited  fields  awake  in  praise, 

As  life  evolves  in  wondrous,  beauteous  ways. 

I  am  earth's  Lord. 
Around  my  throne  in  wingless  flight 
„  She  swings,  herald  of  life  and  light, 

/TM  The  cloud-wrapt  stage  on  which  men  play  and  fight. 

Should  I  but  halt 

Or  cease  my  whirling  queen  to  guide, 
Her  empires  vast  upreared  in  pride 
Would  perish  all  in  thunder-crash  and  tide. 

But  I  am  constant 

And  radiant  rule  in  motion  here, 

As  greater  suns  in  depths  appear 

To  likewise  rule  each  in  his  august  sphere. 

Who  rules  the  suns  ? 

We  search  in  vain  the  skies  to  find 

This  secret  of  creative  mind — t 

The  Gods  are  not  abroad  to  mortal  kind. 

But  Man,  take  heed :  t 

To  act  is  life,  to  play  the  part 
That  warms  and  cheers  a  fellow  heart 
Is  the  true  excellence  of  human  art. 

i, 

And  this  is  love  : 
The  helpful  meed  to  kindly  speed 
A  brother  on  his  way  in  need, 
A  sister  by  the  hand,  but  not  in  greed. 

Life  is  not  piracy; 

I  give  that  worlds  may  bloom  and  bless 
And  find  in  this  my  happiness. 
Reward  is  in  the  good  that  you  express. 


123 


The  Hymn  of  Hate 

Joseph  Dana  Miller 


AND  this  I  hate — not  men,  nor  flag,  nor  race, 
But  only  War  with  its  wild,  grinning  face. 
God  strike  it  till  its  eyes  be  blind  as  night, 
And  all  its  members  tremble  with  affright! 
Oh,  let  it  hear  in  its  death  agony 
The  wail  of  mothers  for  their  best-loved  ones, 

And  on  its  head 

Descend  the  venomed  curses  of  its  sons 
Who  followed  her,  deluded,  where  its  guns 

Had  dyed  the  daisies  red. 

All  these  I  hate — war  and  its  panoply, 
The  lie  that  hides  its  ghastly  mockery, 
That  makes  its  glories  out  of  women's  tears, 
The  toil  of  peasants  through  the  burdened  years, 
The  legacy  of  long  disease  that  preys 
On  bone  and  body  in  the  after-days. 

God's  curses  pour, 
Until  it  shrivel  with  its  votaries 
And  die  away  in  its  own  fiery  seas, 

That  nevermore 

Its  dreadful  call  of  murder  may  be  heard — 
A  thing  accursed  in  very  deed  and  word 

From  blood-drenched  shore  to  shore! 


k 

n> 


At  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  s  Grave 

Harrison  D.  Mason 


GREEN  slopes  here  smile  recognition, 
Pine  woods  yonder  knew  his  tread; 

Comrades  these  of  our  Magician, 
Here  one  can  not  think  him  dead. 

Still  the  village  quaint  and  pleasant, 
With  its  elms  and  hedges  trim, 

Whispers  to  the  busy  present 
Mystic  lore  it  knows  of  him. 

O'er  the  stream  on  which  he  boated, 
Still  the  sun-flecked  shadows  dance; 

All  the  beauty  he  had  noted 

Still  reflects  his  strange  romance. 

From  familiar  slopes  uplifting 
Bluish  summits  far  and  dim, 

Come  as  mists  the  legends  drifting, 
Which  have  drawn  the  world  to  him. 

Master  of  divine  expression, 

Limner  of  exquisite  art, 
Wood  and  stream  breathe  your  confession, 

Concord  still  retains  your  heart. 

Still  your  vision  altruistic 

Comes  to  men  to  haunt  and  sway; 
Still  the  dreamer  and  the  mystic 

Weaves  the  spell  of  yesterday. 

Lingers  still  the  dream  you  cherished 

Of  a  nobler  day  and  true; 
In  that  vision  naught  has  perished  — 

Still  the  world  would  dream  with  you. 


The  Agnostics  Creed 

Walter  Malone 
Jg 

AT  last  I  have  ceased  repining,  at  last  I  accept  my  fate; 
I  have  ceased  to  beat  at  the  Portal,  I  have  ceased  to  knock 

at  the  Gate; 
I  have  ceased  to  work  at  the  Puzzle,  for  the  Secret  has  ended 

my  search, 
And  I  know  that  the  Key  is  entrusted  to  never  a  creed  nor 

church. 

They  have  threatened  with  lakes  of  fire,  they  have  threatened 

with  fetters  of  hell; 
They  have  offered  me  heights  of  heaven  with  their  fields  of 

asphodel; 
But  the  Threat  and  the  Bribe  are  useless  if  Reason  be 

strong  and  stout, 
And  an  honest  man  can  never  surrender  an  honest  doubt. 

The  fables  of  hell  and  of  heaven  are  but  worn-out  Christmas 

toys, 
To  coax  or  to  bribe  or  to  frighten  the  grown-up  girls  and 

boys; 
I  have  ceased  to  be  an  infant,  I  have  traveled  beyond  their 

span — 
It  may  do  for  women  and  children,  but  it  never  will  do  for 

a  man. 

They  are  all  alike,  these  churches,  Mohammedan,  Chris- 
tian, Par  see; 

You  are  vile,  you  are  curst,  you  are  outcast,  if  you  be  not 
as  they  be; 

But  my  Reason  stands  against  them,  and  I  go  as  it  bids 
me  go; 

Its  commands  are  as  calls  of  a  trumpet,  and  I  follow  for 
weal  or  woe. 


} 


126 


But  Oh,  it  is  often  cheerless,  and  Oh,  it  is  often  chill, 
And  I  often  sigh  to  heaven  as  my  path  grows  steep  and 

still. 
I  have  left  behind  my  comrades,  with  their  prattle  and 

childish  noise; 
My  boyhood  now  is  behind  me,  with  all  of  its  broken  toys ! 

Oh,  that  God  of  gods  is  glorious,  the  emperor  of  every  land; 
He  carries  the  moon  and  the  planets  in  the  palm  of  His 

mighty  hand; 
He  is  girt  with  the  belt  of  Orion,  he  is  Lord  of  the  suns  and 

stars, 
A  wielder  of  constellations,  of  Canopus,  Arcturus  and 

Mars! 

I  believe  in  Love  and  Duty,  I  believe  in  the  True  and  Just; 
I  believe  in  the  common  kinship  of  everything  born  from 

dust. 
I  hope  that  the  Right  will  triumph,  that  the  scepter ed 

Wrong  will  fall, 
That  Death  will  at  last  be  defeated,  that  the  Grave  will  not 

end  all. 

I  believe  in  the  martyrs  and  heroes  who  have  died  for  the 

sake  of  Right, 
And  I  promise,  like  them,  to  follow  in  my  Reason's 

faithful  light; 
If  my  Reason  errs  in  judgment,  I  but  honestly  strive  as  I 

can; 
If  a  God  decrees  my  downfall,  I  shall  stand  it  like  a  man. 


Brotherhood 

Edwin  Markham 


THE  crest  and  crowning  of  all  good, 
Life's  final  star,  is  Brotherhood; 
For  it  will  bring  again  to  earth 
Her  long-lost  Poesy  and  Mirth; 
Will  send  new  light  on  every  face, 
A  kingly  power  upon  the  race. 
And  till  it  comes,  we  men  are  slaves, 
And  travel  downward  to  the  dust  of  graves. 

Come,  clear  the  way,  then,  clear  the  way  : 

Blind  creeds  and  kings  have  had  their  day. 

Break  the  dead  branches  from  the  path  : 

Our  hope  is  in  the  aftermath  — 

Our  hope  is  in  heroic  men, 

Star-led  to  build  the  world  again. 

To  this  event  the  ages  ran  : 

Make  way  for  Brotherhood  —  make  way  for  Man  ! 


Memory  and  Hojpe 

Thomas  Moore 


WHEN  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away 

Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too, 
The  memory  of  the  past  will  stay, 

And  half  our  joys  renew. 


k 

h 


Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom; 

Our  joys  shall  ahvays  last; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past! 


128 


The  Sea 

William  Harold  Martin 


/  SEE  beyond  the  breaking  lines  of  white 
The  solemn  surge  and  heaving  of  the  sea; 
Majestic  in  its  mystery  of  Life — 
Its  grip  of  Earth,  and  of  Eternity. 

Deeper  than  thought,  eternal  as  the  world, 
Unbridled  by  the  strongest  human  hand; 
Unbeaten  since  its  first  derision  swirled 
In  seething  challenge  on  the  shifting  sand. 

I  stand  and  watch  its  green  turn  into  blue; 
I  see  its  crest  by  frothing  passions  torn; 
And  then  a  calm — the  sky  has  rifted  clear — 
The  sun  appears,  and  lo!  the  day  is  born. 


*  *  *  *  * 


Eternities  are  years  hid  into  space, 
Yet  through  them  all  the  sea  shall  live  sublime- 
Shall  keep  its  mysteries  beyond  our  ken 
And  rule  the  Unknown  till  the  end  of  time. 


Death  and  Sleep 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


HOW  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother,  Sleep! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When  throned  on  oceans  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful  I 


Equality 

Harriet  Martineau 


ALL  men  are  equal  in  their  birth, 

Heirs  of  the  earth  and  skies; 
All  men  are  equal  when  that  earth 

Fades  from  their  dying  eyes. 

'T  is  man  alone  who  difference  sees, 

And  speaks  of  high  and  low, 
And  worships  those,  and  tramples  these, 

While  the  same  path  they  go. 

0  let  man  hasten  to  restore 

To  all  their  rights  of  love; 
In  power  and  wealth  exult  no  more, 

In  wisdom  lowly  move. 

Ye  great,  renounce  your  earth-born  pride! 

Ye  low,  your  shame  and  fear  I 
Live,  as  ye  worship,  side  by  side; 

Your  brotherhood  revere! 


AFOOT  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road, 

Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 

The  long  brown  path  before  me  leading  wherever  I  choose. 

Henceforth  I  ask  not  good  fortune,  I  myself  am  good 
fortune, 

Henceforth  I  whimper  no  more,  postpone  no  more,  need 
nothing, 

Done  with  indoor  complaints,  libraries,  querulous  criti- 
cisms, 

Strong  and  content  I  travel  the  open  road. 

— Walt  Whitman 


The  Lawn-Mower 

George  Frederick  Gundelftnger 
1? 

OVER  the  green-bladed  ocean  it  travels 

Much  like  a  sailboat  that  plows  through  the  sea; 

A  spray  of  the  sweet-scented  grass  ever  dabbles 
And  shelters  its  trail  which  traverses  the  lea. 

Here  is  a  dandelion,  golden  and  gaudy, 
Tall  and  conceited,  conspicuous  rogue! 

I  mow  off  your  head  as  you  stand  there  so  haughty 
Enough  of  your  silly  grandiloquent  brogue! 

But  yon  is  a  violet,  silent  and  hidden, 

Modest  and  simple  and  humble  and  sweet; 

To  harm  thee  my  knife  is  inapt  and  forbidden 
As  long  as  thou  breathest  in  God's  own  retreat. 


G.  Bernard  Shaw 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 


SPHINX  with  a  voice,  and,  knowing,  dare  to  tell, 
Thou  who  hast  stripped  the  flesh  from  puny  man, 
Showing  his  shivering  soul,  his  tribal  clan, 

Whether  in  mansion  or  in  prison-cell; 

Thou  icho  hast  driven  Custom  down  to  hell, 
Flashing  the  truth  upon  our  marriage-ban, 
Fighting  our  lies  as  an  immortal  can, 

Deity-wise  and  all-inscrutable  : 

Thou  art  a  world-force  in  the  rush  of  Time, 
Playing  with  Life  as  children  do  with  toys, 
Hurling  back  in  her  face  the  very  joys 

That  man,  not  superman,  has  called  sublime; 

So  long  as  worlds  unto  our  old  world  rhyme 
Thy  name  shall  silence  Sham's  defiant  noise! 


An  Old  Say  in  of  Mother's 

John  D.  Wells 


THE  older  that  a  body  gits 

The  better,  seems  t'  me, 
He  reckolects  the  folks  an'  jokes 

An"  things  that  used  t'  be; 
Like  other  night,  whilst  settin'  there 

An9  rompin'  through  the  years, 
An'  driftin'  on  the  back'urds  way, 
I  swan,  I  heerd  my  mother  say  : 

"  Go  wash  yer  neck  an'  ears!  " 

It  took  me  back  fer  forty  years, 

An'  I's  a  boy  again, 
With  same  dislike  fer  water  that 

Was  natural  to  me  then  ; 
/  seemed  t'  feel  my  speerit  rise, 

An'  feel  my  boyish  tears 
A-rollin'  down  in  same  ol'  way, 
Like  when  my  mother  used  t  '  say  : 

"  Go  wash  yer  neck  an'  ears!  " 

Clean  neck  an'  ears,  you  reckolect, 

Was  purt'  nigh  disgrace  — 
There  wa'n't  no  sense  in  washin'  'cept 

Perhaps  a  body's  face  ! 
We  used  t  '  think  that  mas  was  made 

To  add  to  boyish  keers, 
An'  stand  around  in  bossin'  way, 
When  boys  was  tiredest,  an'  say  : 

"  Go  wash  yer  neck  an'  ears!  " 


An'  yit  I  'II  warrant  that  tonight 

You  'd  like  i'  go  to  bed 
In  same  ol'  room,  with  locust  bloom 

A-droppin'  overhead 
On  shingle  roof,  an'  hold  yer  breath 

With  all  your  boyish  fears, 
An'  hear  yer  mother  softly  creep 
Upstairs  an'  ask  y' :  "  Gone  to  Sleep? — 

Did  y'  wash  yer  neck  an'  ears?  " 


My  Brave  World-Builders' 


Joaquin  Miller 


MY  brave  world-builders  of  the  West, 
Why,  who  doth  know  ye?  Who  shall  know 
But  I,  that  on  thy  peaks  of  snow 
Brake  bread  the  first?  Who  loves  ye  best? 
Who  holds  ye  still,  of  more  stern  worth 
Than  all  proud  peoples  of  the  earth? 

Yea,  I,  the  rhymer  of  wild  rhymes, 

Indifferent  of  blame  or  praise, 

Still  sing  of  ye,  as  one  who  plays 

The  same  sweet  air  in  all  strange  climes  — 

The  same  wild,  piercing  highland  air, 

Because  —  because,  his  heart  is  there. 

'Courtesy  of  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Co. 


The  Fire 

Paul  Reps 


WITH  crumpled  papers  and  a  few  split  logs 

The  fire  was  made.  I  fumbled  for  a  match; 

I  told  myself:  Afire  's  a  helpless  thing, 

Why  can't  it  light  itself?  It  needs  a  God! 

Of  course,  I  am  its  God.  Ha,  I  a  god! 

I  touched  it  with  a  flame  and  watched  it  start 

And  jump,  or  was  it  jumping?  Yes,  it  burned. 

The  fire  was  young  and  struggling  so  for  life. 

It  lived,  and  as  it  grew  at  first  it  flamed, 

It  spurted,  glad  to  live.  It  was  alive! 

And  such  afire  as  almost  never  is. 

And  then  the  spurting  and  the  flaming  done 

It  settled  down  to  do  a  fire's  work. 

The  very  wood's  heart,  livened,  glowed  with  warmth, 

And  made  me  glad  and  sad  and  glad  to  watch  it; 

A  fire  it  was,  a  fire  a  God  might  like. 

And  in  the  far  night  when  the  room  was  warm 

I  know  it  felt  that  it  had  done  its  work. 

I  thought  I  saw  it  laugh  from  out  the  shadows — 

The  shadows  that  it  danced  across  the  wall. 

It  crackled  once  or  twice  as  if  it  said, 

You  see,  my  friend,  I  still  know  how  to  crackle ! 

The  embers  forming  from  the  wood  were  quiet, 

They  warmed  me  still;  and  /,  as  they,  content — 

I  sat  there  long,  I  must  have  been  asleep 

For  when  I  woke  the  fire  was  gone,  but  still — 

The  warm  bricks  gave  off  heat,  and  heat,  and  heat. 


The  Prisoner's  Lament 

John  Francis  Glynn 
*» 

PRIMROSE  time  in  Ireland, 

An'  me  in  bolts  and  bars, 

Meadows  sweet  with  buds  a-break, 

An'  miles  of  jauntin'-cars — 
But,  stay  avick,  iti  soul  of  me 
Has  gone  to  join  th'  pageantry, 
I  'm  drinkin'  in  the  music  of  the  lark  beneath  th'  stars. 

Springtime,  an'  th'  shamrocks 

So  tender  green,  aroo! 

Every  colleen  in  the  land 

An'  gossoon  on  th'  woo — 
'  T  is  priest  to  shrive  me  of  all  sin, 
The  soul  of  me  gone  journeyin' 
To  see  the  Irish  April  skies  put  on  their  robe  of  blue. 


Liberty 

Joseph  Addison 

•9 

0  LIBERTY!  thou  goddess  heavenly  bright, 
Profuse  of  bliss  and  pregnant  with  delight, 
Eternal  pleasures  in  thy  presence  reign, 
And  smiling  Plenty  leads  thy  smiling  train. 
Eased  of  the  load,  Subjection  grows  more  light, 
And  Poverty  looks  cheerful  in  thy  sight. 
Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  Nature  gay, 
Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun  and  pleasure  to  the  day. 


A  New  -Year  Poem 

Capt.  Jack  Crawford 


DON'T  blame  the  World.  It  's  better 

Than  the  man  who  wants  to  be 

A  Somebody,  but  lives  to  save 

The  undertaker's  fee. 

For  surely  he  's  a  dead  one 

On  our  strenuous  preserves. 

A  wooden  coat,  six  feet  of  earth, 

Is  all  that  he  deserves. 

Go  chase  yourself  around  the  block, 

Then  chase  around  some  more, 

And  start  the  blood  to  circulate, 

And  sweat  from  every  pore. 

Then  change  your  face  and  change  your  sox, 

And  change  your  atmosphere, 

And  change  your  dope  for  Heaven's  Brew, 

To  start  the  glad  New  Year. 

Now  this  is  my  advice  to  you, 
But  have  you  got  the  sand 
To  buck  against  temptation, 
And  to  play  a  winning  hand? 
If  so,  then  shake;  God  speed  you  on; 
You  'II  win;  just  persevere. 
And  if  you  've  never  been  a  man, 
Begin  with  the  New  Year. 


136 


Truth* 

Ernest  Crosby 

•8 

OUR  highest  truths  are  but  half-truths. 
Think  not  to  settle  down  forever  in  any  truth. 
.  Make  use  of  it  as  a  tent  in  which  to  pass  a  summer  night, 

but  build  no  house  of  it,  or  it  will  be  your  tomb. 
When  you  find  the  old  truth  irksome  and  confining, 
When  you  first  have  an  inkling  of  its  insufficiency,  and 

begin  to  descry  a  dim  counter-truth  looming  up  beyond, 
Then  weep  not,  but  give  thanks. 
It  is  the  Lord's  voice,  whispering,  "  Take  up  thy  bed  and 

walk." 

The  truth  is  one  with  the  way  and  the  life; 
It  is  the  climbing,  zigzag  road  which  we  must  travel; 
It  is  the  irrepressible  growth  which  we  must  experience. 
Hail  the  new  truth  as  the  old  truth  raised  from  the  dead; 
Hail  it,  but  forget  not  that  it  too  will  prove  to  be  a  half- 

truth  ; 
For  sooner  or  later  we  shall  have  to  dismiss  it  also  at 

another  and  loftier  stage  of  our  journey. 

*Covrtety  of  Small,  May-nurd  <t  Co. 


The  California  Poppy 

Joaquin  Miller 


THE  golden  poppy  is  God's  gold, 

The  gold  that  lifts,  nor  weighs  us  down, 
The  gold  that  knows  no  miser's  hold, 

The  gold  that  banks  not  in  the  town, 
But  singing,  laughing,  freely  spills 
Its  hoard  far  up  the  happy  hills; 
Far  up,  far  down,  at  every  turn  — 
What  beggar  has  not  gold  to  burn! 

'Covrtery  of  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Co. 


Rhymes  in  Time  of  Agitation 

William  Griffith 

•8 

OVERWORLD  TO  UNDERWORLD 

GOD  went  to  sleep  one  day  in  quiet, 
And  had  a  dream  of  bee-folk  swarming, 

With  stingers  whetted  for  a  riot: 
His  work  so  needed  some  reforming. 

And  since  bee-folk  are  very  human, 

Both  as  to  virtues  and  to  vices, 
They  settled  down  as  man  and  woman 

Engaged  in  making  laws  and  prices. 

And  some,  with  both  hands  on  the  Bible, 
Were  not  above  clandestine  sinning, 

Refraining  meanwhile,  as  a  libel, 

To  praise  the  work  from  the  beginning. 

The  healing  balm  of  better  wages 

Drew  others  to  condemn  the  revel 
And  recreations  of  the  ages, 

As  strongly  smelling  of  the  devil. 

Who  breaks  as  well  as  makes  the  laws  is 

Since  then  as  zealously  as  ever 
Resigned  to  remedy  the  causes, 

And  rock  the  cradle  of  endeavor. 

Amid  the  stress  and  strain  and  tension 
And  rot  and  rust  and  sloth  and  shirking, 

It  baffles  human  comprehension 

How  well  the  old  machine  is  working. 

Working?  Sheer  heresy  nor  schism 

The  face  of  honest  labor  blanches. 
The  tree?  A  spray  of  socialism, 

To  kill  the  roots  and  save  the  branches? 


Each  day  a  Sabbath?  Who  would  falter 

In  sanctimony  or  in  sighing? 
Nor  hope  to  blunder  past  the  altar, 

And  plunder  heaven  without  dying? 

UNDERWORLD  TO  OVERWORLD 
GREAT  is  the  age,  so  vainly  great! 

That  strives  to  quell  and  quench  and  hew 
The  springs  and  pillars  of  the  State  : 

If  greatness  knew! 

Brief  power  and  passion  so  abound 

As  to  enthrall  the  very  few, 
And  go  on  hedging  them  around, 

Who  cared  nor  knew. 

Who  rightly  reckons  any  more 
The  seasons  wherein  darkly  brew 

The  dissipations  of  the  poor, 
Who  dared  nor  knew  ? 

Say  who  of  them  knows  right  from  wrong! 

Or  gives  a  damn  for  me  or  you ! 
Or  heeds  the  heavy  undersong! 

If  they  but  knew! 

Gray,  writhen  masses  coiled  and  curled: 
Half-hooded  eyes  that  glitter  through 

The  thunders  of  the  underworld : 
If  God  but  knew — if  God  but  knew! 


Who  First  Draw  Sword 

Max  Ehrmann 


THOU  God,  for  ages  worshiped  on  the  earth, 
If  thou  canst  hear,  0  heed  our  cry! 
But  if  thou  wilt  not  and  our  pain  is  mirth 
To  thee,  and  thousands  still  must  die, 
Lo,  have  a  care,  thou  God,  lest  it  be  said 
Thou  never  wast  or,  having  been,  art  dead! 

By  some  great  force  beyond  our  human  way, 

0  sober  thou  the  drunken  king 

Whose  maddened  brain  has  made  the  world  a  prey 

To  sharpened  sword  and  shrapnel  's  sting! 

But  if  thou  canst  not  stay  the  flying  lead, 

Then  flow,  0  Blood,  till  war  itself  be  dead  1 

Flow,  Blood,  till  Prussia's  monster  "  Might  is  Right  " 

Be  drained  and  every  vein  be  dry, 

The  flesh  picked  clean  till  every  bone  be  white, 

And  not  a  man  be  left  to  die  : 

A  warning  that  this  war  through  time  transmit, 

That  they  who  first  draw  sword  shall  die  by  it. 


Reputation 

William  Shakespeare 


GOOD  name,  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls; 

Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash;  't  is  something,  nothing; 

'T  was  mine,  't  is  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands; 

But  he,  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 

Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 

And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 


140 


When  Kreisler  Played 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 


1  HEARD  Fritz  Kreisler  play  tonight — 

His  music  made  me  mute, 
An  orchestra  in  but  one  bow; 

With  harp,  oboe  and  flute. 

He  touched  the  changing  shores  of  sound 
Where  sands  of  time  are  heaped; 

And  struck  the  waves  of  harmony 
Where  shades  of  tone  are  steeped. 

I  saw  the  ships  go  out  to  sea, 

To  far  mid-ocean  s  gales; 
I  saw  them  gray  in  havens  fair 

Let  down  their  tattered  sails. 

I  saw  the  snow  offriged  zone, 

The  frost  upon  the  pane; 
The  fury  of  the  tropic  storm, 

Black  clouds,  and  then  the  rain. 

I  heard  the  birds  in  merry  song 
On  orchard's  bough  and  branch, 

And  heard  the  lowing  of  the  kine 
In  western  field  and  ranch. 

I  saw  the  sun  climb  up  the  slopes, 

To  zenith  at  its  noon; 
I  saw  the  crimson-lighted  eve 

Fade  into  night,  too  soon. 

I  heard  the  widow's  anxious  wail, 

And  sorrow's  muffled  cry; 
I  saw  the  sparkle  of  a  tear 

Fall  from  a  weary  eye. 


I  felt  the  glow  of  friendship's  flame, 
The  health  of  healing's  balm, 

The  blush  of  love,  the  pale  of  pain, 
The  sob  and  sigh  of  calm. 

I  heard  the  call  of  children  peal 
To  comrades  while  at  play, 

The  laughing  echoes  in  the  glen 
Grow  faint  and  far  away. 

But  then,  in  joyous  sensuous  strain, 
The  measures  of  the  waltz; 

Rang  in  the  gladness  of  the  world 
And  mercy  to  the  false. 


Epitaph  of  a  Philosopher 

Edward  Sapir 


/  HAD  a  perfect  system  when  I  lived, 

Flawless,  waterproof  to  fallacy  ; 

The  world  but  seemed  a  string  of  episodes, 

Each  born  to  prove  my  system. 

Nature  and  Man  and  God  were  each  assigned  a  comfort- 

able niche 

And  Art  and  Law  both  fitted  like  a  glove. 
But  ever  since  they  dug  a  hole  for  me, 
To  meditate  in  till  the  further  reach  of  time, 
I  've  thought  out  many  systems  more  — 
One  a  day  's  about  my  average  — 
And  lo!  each  system  fits  more  perfectly  than  any  other. 
Of  late  I  've  tried  to  find  a  system 
Unsusceptible  of  flawless  demonstration; 
Alas  1  1  have  not  found  one  yet. 
0  gentle  tombstone-visitor,  have  you? 


When  God  Nods 

Frederic  Bann 


I  HAD  a  vision  in  the  night; 

A  land  lit  by  a  glowing  light 

Seen  through  a  screen  of  trees. 

There — in  what  seemed  a  happy  place — 

A  people,  garmented  with  grace, 

Moved  with  delicious  ease. 

Odors,  and  glad,  clear  voices  came; 

Music  arose,  and  like  a  flame 

Caught  all  the  people's  feet; 

Then,  joining  hands,  they  danced  and  sung, 

As  though  they  from  some  God  had  sprung 

When  Love  and  Joy  did  meet. 

Youth  gave  their  limbs  a  supple  grace, 

And  Beauty  shone  in  every  face — 

Bright  children  of  the  Gods — 

Then,  suddenly,  a  darkness  came 

And  one  heard  voices  fraught  with  shame, 

And  blows  of  falling  rods. 

Shrieks  tore  the  air,  and  gasps  of  pain. 

One  shouted:  "  Where  is  now  the  gain? 

Why  frowns  Thine  awful  brow? 

Why  dost  Thou  lift  Thy  cruel  arm 

On  those  whose  only  sin  is  Charm? 

0  Father,  where  art  Thou? 

0  God,  why  give  us  Love  and  Hope, 

But  not  the  strength  with  Life  to  cope? 

What  is  the  meaning,  God?" 


'Mid  noise  as  of  a  thousand  storms, 
Red  Lightning  showed  me  horrid  forms; 
And  lo! — /  saw  One,  nod! 


Little  Mites  and  the  Almighty 

Homer  Hyde 


A  HUNK  of  mud  is  spinning  round 

In  the  infinite  realms  of  space 
With  a  light  little  bright  little  pebble 

In  an  endless  annual  race. 

And  a  glowing  orb  that  holds  in  leash 

Both  these  and  some  other  spheres; 
And  they  've  humped  themselves  round  this  solar  hunk 

For  a  myriad  million  years. 

And  on  the  aforenamed  hunk  of  mud 

Some  bright  little  mites  have  trod 
Who  have  builded  a  mammoth  idol 

And  branded  their  idol,  "  God" 


The  Call  of  the  Footlights 

Earle  Remington  Mines 


YOU  may  leave  the  stage,  and  hide  away 

On  a  farm,  to  inhale  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  tread  on  violets  every  day; 

But  go  some  time  and  see  a  play. 

If  you  tell  the  truth,  you  're  bound  to  say, 

As  you  sit  "  in  front,"  your  weary  brain 

Sees  the  dressing-room,  with  watts  so  plain, 

The  rows  of  hanging  costumes  vain, 

And  you  'II  hate  the  peace  of  the  country  lane. 

The  footlights  call,  and  the  love  you  've  slain, 

Will  whisper,  "  Dear,  come  home  again!  " 


More  Kindness  Needed 

Albert  Ferguson 

•8 


"MORE  Kindness!  "  Thai  '*  */KJ  cry. 
Don'i  si*  and  scoff  and  jeer  and  sigh, 
But  beam  a  cheerful,  hopeful  smile 
Worth  while. 

The  world  is  full  of  pain  and  woe. 
Dont  add  a  drop  of  sorrow.  Go 
And  lighten  burdens  on  your  way, 
Today. 

"  What  Cheer?  "  A  helpful  hail 
To  sinking  man  when  he  would  fail. 
Change  condemnation  into  chaff 
And  laugh. 

Yes,  son,  the  world  needs  kindness  more 
Than  other  virtues  deep  in  store. 
The  man  who  holds  his  god  is  gold, 
Is  sold. 

I  'd  rather  tell  a  corking  lie, 
If  by  it  I  could  bright  an  eye; 
Instead  of  dire  presaging  doom 
With  gloom. 


The  Way  and  the  End 

Ernest  Crosby 


THE  Way  begins  in  the  sense  of  sin,  in  self-abhorrence 
and  renunciation,  in  acknowledged  emptiness; 

It  winds  through  self-denial,  through  submission  and 
meekness  and  humility,  through  patience  and  long- 
suffering; 

It  leads  us  up  higher,  past  the  forgiveness  of  others  and  the 
acceptance  of  them  upon  their  own  terms; 

Such  is  the  Way,  but  it  is  not  the  End. 

The  End  is  the  consciousness  of  the  heaven-born  selfhood; 
The  new  self,  found  and  loved  in  eternal  fellowship ; 
The  self-centered,  self-sufficient  pride  of  divine  manhood; 
The  glad  fulness   of  exultant,   unbounded,   everlasting, 
almighty  love. 

*Courtesy  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


My  Star 

Robert  Browning 


ALL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird;  like  a  flower  t 

hangs  furled; 
They  must  solace  themselves  with  the 

Saturn  above  it. 

What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore 
I  love  it. 


146 


"Stevie"  Crane 

Earle  Remington  Mines 


DEAR  child-heart,  crying  in  the  darkness 

For  his  mother's  hand  ; 

So  soon  to  know  if  there  be  yet  another  land, 

Where  things  are  real, 

Not  shadows. 

Oh,  I  understand  — 

/,  too,  have  groped  and  felt 

For  that  to  cling  to 

Which  would  not  melt, 

And  vanish  'neath  the  touch 

Of  one  who  loved  the  flesh  too  much, 

And  weeping,  lay 

In  torture  'til  the  day. 

Dear  God!  If  there  be  such, 

I  wonder  if  you  know 

How  we  writhe  to  you 

From  the  dust  below? 

•8 


Candor 

James  Russell  Lowell 


LET  us  speak  plain :  there  is  more  force  in  names 
Than  most  men  dream  of;  and  a  lie  may  keep 
Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants,  TYRANTS,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  His  grace  must  fall; 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 


A  Prayer 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 


FA  THER,  keep  me,  never  failing, 
In  the  strong  part  men  must  play, 

Keep  me,  ever  wrong  assailing 
Through  the  battles  of  today. 

Cheer  me  on,  in  days  of  sorrow, 
Soothe  me  in  sad  hours  of  pain, 

Free  me,  from  the  false  tomorrow, 
And  the  fetters  forged  by  Gain. 

Let  me  share  my  joy  with  others; 

With  my  toiling  fellowman, 
Counting  all  as  bravest  brothers, 

And  as  worthy  of  my  clan. 

Train  mine  eyes  to  see  new  beauty, 

Beaming  bountiful  about, 
Keep  me  "  kindly  "  —  when  dull  duty 

Turns  full  Trust  to  troubled  Doubt. 

Let  me  look  beyond  the  curtain; 

See  the  things  that  sacred  are; 
Make  my  purpose  pure  and  certain  — 

As  the  far-off  Northern  Star. 

Let  me  hear  the  minstrels  singing, 
Melting  music  everywhere, 

While  the  sounds  of  harps  are  ringing 
Through  the  tranquil  twilight  air. 


Requiem 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


UNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie; 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me  : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


Lifes  Mysteries 

W.  F.  McCaleb 


THE  dusk  drops  down  the  misty  mountain  way, 

Far  out  there  sinks  the  saffron  disk  of  day, 

Leaving  me  lone  amid  the  wilderness 

Of  life,  athrob  with  infinite  silences. 

How  spirit-like  the  troubled  muttering 

Of  drowsy  birds;  how  lorn  the  uttering 

Of  the  disconsolate  owl;  how  weird  the  cries 

Of  insects  at  the  garish  moon's  uprise! 

The  humming  of  the  over-world,  the  rush 

Of  countless  constellations  and  the  hush 

Of  mystic  wings,  the  touch  of  spirit-hands — 

The  awe  that  comes  of  sailing  past  the  lands 

Of  light !  Oh,  let  me  sink  now  past  the  rise 

Of  suns,  and  hazy  confine  of  the  skies — 

Then  shall  I  read  life's  murmuring  mysteries. 


Abraham  Lincoln 

Richard  L.  Johnson 


CAN  man  be  mortal  and  immortal,  too? 

Or  does  the  sable  hearse  with  raven  plumes 

Contain  the  soul  of  him  whose  body  it  conveys 

To  that  unvoiced  abode,  the  silent  tomb? 

Can  he  that  's  godlike  in  his  thoughts  and  deeds, 

Who  emphasized  the  equal  rights  of  all 

With  earnest  thought  on  History's  blazing  page, 

Pure  gold  without  alloy,  the  guinea's  worth 

For  Justice  —  ever  die,  or  be  confined 

In  mummy-case  or  pyramid  of  stone  ? 

Avaunt  the  thought  that  such  as  he  could  die, 
Whose  awkward  form  concealed  a  master  mind, 
That  roused  the  world  to  wonder  and  surprise, 
Achieved  a  nation's  grand,  harmonious  whole  — 
When  grim  destruction  sought  to  rend  the  State, 
And  wild  confusion  seemed  to  reign  supreme, 
When  smoke  of  battle  mingled  with  the  clouds 
That  shadowed  him  —  the  martyr  President, 
Whose  influence  forever  will  prevail 
While  stars  shine  on  in  depths  of  trackless  skies, 
The  Atlas  of  a  heavy-burdened  race, 
A  new-found  Moses  in  the  niche  of  Time, 
Who  laid  its  sorrows  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  broke  its  shackles  with  his  potent  pen. 

Alone,  he  lives,  pre-eminently  great  — 

Among  the  sons  of  men,  Affection's  star, 

A  statesman  wise,  and  a  philosopher, 

A  Socrates  and  Pericles  —  in  one, 

The  supreme  genius  of  the  womb  of  Time, 

Whose  Pantheon  is  —  the  loving  heart  of  man. 


150 


Self-made,  he  was,  but  worshiped  not  himself, 
A  radiant  soul  full  of  rare  gifts  concealed, 
Keen-edged  and  tempered  by  a  righteous  will 
For  trials,  toils  and  triumphs  soon  to  come. 
His  Master,  God,  the  source  from  which  he  drew 
The  lessons  learned  in  hardship's  rugged  school, 
Gave  wisdom  that  can  cheer  and  guide  and  rule 
In  softer  airs  than  ever  favored  thee, 
With  note  of  justice  and  the  touch  divine. 

How  passing  strange  and  marvelous  he  was, 

So  complex  none  can  fully  comprehend 

The  great  emancipator  of  a  race. 

He  towered  above  the  common  type  of  man, 

A  mountain  peak  above  the  vales  below : 

And,  as  the  eagle  borne  on  tireless  wings 

In  upper  air,  where  neither  tempest  nor 

The  sound  of  avalanche  is  heard,  renews, 

At  that  vast  height,  its  strength :  so  he,  when  worn 

And  sore  perplexed  with  cares  of  State,  would  soar 

Upward  and  far  beyond  the  eagle's  flight, 

To  those  supernal  heights  which  prophecy 

And  faith  reveal  to  man,  and  there  imbibe 

Full  inspiration  for  the  work  to  come. 

That  Star  that  lit  a  darkened  hemisphere, 

Shines  on  where  Morning  swings  her  gates  of  light. 

All  hail  and  honor  to  his  glorious  name, 

Who  sued  from  God  the  franchise  of  a  race, 

Righting  the  wrongs  the  curse  of  bondage  made, 

Restoring  mankind  to  its  rightful  place. 

The  Bandit  Bee  now  feels  his  providence 
In  planting  roses  where  the  thistles  grew, 
The  Southland  now  proclaims  his  innate  worth, 
Records  his  name  among  her  noblest  sons. 
When  Prejudice  gives  way  to  lasting  Truth, 
A  pedestal  of  glory  his  reward, 


Who  missive  sped  which  hath  no  counterpart 

To  her,  who  gave  the  Union,  all,  five  sons, 

With  quill  plucked  from  his  sad  and  bleeding  heart, 

He  gave  her  all  he  had,  the  Nation's  tears. 

For  him  Reflection  trims  her  solemn  lamp 
Who  made  the  Declaration,  not  a  farce, 
Defying  all  the  hordes  of  hell  to  check, 
Or  chill  the  tireless  pulsings  of  his  heart, 
Till,  Phenix-like,  he  rose  above  the  ash 
Which  Death  and  Fiery  Desolation  made 
To  throne  of  God,  on  stairs  of  martyrdom. 

Where  eulogy  abounds  and  praises  blend 

With  choirs  divine,  to  all  the  great  and  good 

Who  bless  the  earth  with  sense  of  brotherhood, 

The  grandest  pattern  still  for  all  the  world 

Is  that  majestic  figure,  standing  on 

The  Arch  of  Time,  which  Washington  designed, 

Still,  incomplete,  without  the  keystone,  true, 

The  perfect  golden  dower  of  every  one 

Himself  to  own,  the  postulate  of  God, 

Which  Jefferson  inscribed  on  Parchment  Scroll, 

And  Lincoln  laid  with  mortar  of  his  soul. 


152 


Persevera  Ad  Victoriam 

Edwin  Leibfreed 
' 


I  SA  Y  I  What  kind  of  man  is  this 

Who  knows  his  lines,  yet  quits  the  play, 

And  makes  the  scene  go  all  amiss 
Because  a  shadow  crossed  his  way? 

The  curtain's  up,  remember,  lad, 
And  even  though  your  part  be  small, 

It  's  how  you  did  it  —  good  or  bad  — 
That  counts  in  acting,  after  all. 

You  did  not  choose  your  part,  I  know. 

'  T  was  handed  out  by  Him  who  sees 
The  stations  high  and  places  low 

Where  fitness  counts  and  efforts  please. 

But  this  I  swear  :  no  play  is  good 
If  meaner  parts  be  slightly  done; 

And  every  star  has  one  time  stood 
Where  you  are  now,  and  honors  won. 

The  scenes  must  shift,  the  acts  move  on, 
And  you  will  scarcely  know,  my  boy, 

Just  how  you  played,  until  it  's  done 
And  felt  the  flush  of  labor's  joy. 


The  Day  of  the  Lord 


Charles  Kingsley 


THE  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at  hand! 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky; 
The  nations  sleep  starving  on  heaps  of  gold; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  morn, 
When  the  clouds  are  heavy  then  breaks  the  dawn; 

And  the  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand! 
The  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand! 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God — 

Freedom  and  mercy  and  truth! 
Oh,  Come!  for  the  earth  is  grown  coward  and  old! 

Come  down,  and  renew  us  her  youth. 
Wisdom,  Self-Sacrifice,  Daring  and  Love, 
Haste  to  the  battlefield,  stoop  from  above, 

To  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand  I 
The  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand! 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  hounds  of  Hell — 

Famine  and  Plague  and  War; 
Idleness,  Bigotry,  Cant  and  Misrule, 

Gather,  and  fall  in  the  snare! 
Hireling,  Mammonite,  Bigot  and  Knave, 
Crawl  to  the  battlefield,  sneak  to  your  grave, 

In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand ! 
The  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand! 


Morning 

Arthur  Royce  MacDonald 

•8 

MORNING  belongs  to  God  and  the  birds, 

To  the  beasts  of  the  field,  to  sweet-scented  flowers  ; 

Morning  belongs  to  the  bees  and  the  bugs, 

To  the  bright-winged  mistress  of  carpeted  bowers. 

And  yours  is  the  Morning,  if  out  of  your  shell 
Of  dreamy  repose  you  crawl  with  the  Sun 
Who  heralds  the  birth  of  another  bright  day, 
Calling  God's  children  to  work  and  to  play  — 
Scattering  lusts  of  a  night-time  away  — 
Will  you  take  part  in  the  Morning? 

Morning,  devoid  of  the  intrigues  of  man, 

Is  as  spotless  and  pure  as  the  dawning  of  life; 

Morning,  aglow  with  the  sweet  sparkling  dew, 

Seems  soothed  and  refreshed  for  the  oncoming  strife. 

For  long  ere  the  Morning,  with  tired,  weary  step 
Have  Ghouls  of  the  night-time  sunk  to  their  rest  —  • 
Banished,  ashamed  in  the  Heloisian  zest  — 
(Theirs  not  the  lives  for  which  Morning  was  blest} 
But  you  can  take  part  in  the  Morning! 


THE  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  its  love  is  done. 

—  Francis  W.  Bourdillon 


The  Supreme  Manifesto 

Orlando  W.  Kinne 


I  AM  Universal,  God,  Creator; 
Master  of  all  principals  and  places; 
Autocrat  of  the  celestial  spaces; 

Monarch  of  the  systems  and  the  spheres. 
I  am  Absolute,  All-Wise,  Eternal; 
Builder  of  the  hills  and  their  foundations  ; 
Shaper  of  events  and  correlations; 

Warder  of  the  seasons  and  the  years. 

I  am  Great,  Omnipotent,  Majestic; 
High  Commander  of  imperial  forces  ; 
Guide  and  Guardian  of  the  counter-courses; 

Chief  Administrator  of  the  laws. 
I  am  Infinite,  Divine,  Director; 
Dictatorial  head  of  cosmic  order; 
Self-appointed  Scribe  and  sole  Recorder 

Of  inscrutable  Effect  and  Cause. 

I  am  master  of  the  means  and  measures 
Used  in  every  earthly  undertaking; 
Used  in  every  making  and  unmaking  — 

Used  in  every  process  of  the  world. 
I  am  Potentate  and  Prince  Superior  : 
Nothing  can  occur  without  my  pleasure; 
Nothing  can  escape  my  righteous  measure, 

Though  all  objects  were  about  me  hurled. 

I  am  minister  —  likewise  marauder  — 
Mover  of  all  interests,  wise  or  wasteful; 
Though  they  may  appear  to  be  distasteful, 

Still  I  generate  them  ivith  my  breath. 
I  am  Uttermost,  the  Everlasting; 
Organizer  of  the  generations; 


<z? 


He  thai  disregards  my  observations 
Merits  condemnation — /  am  Death. 

I  am  All  in  All — the  Past,  the  Present, 
Yea,  the  Future  lies  within  my  keeping : 
Whether  they  remain  alive  or  sleeping, 

Every  creature  yields  at  my  command. 
All  existences  in  Earth  and  Heaven, 
In  the  temporal  state  or  the  eternal, 
Move  at  my  behest — /  am  Supernal — 

Self-sufficient,  Omnipresent,  Grand. 


Defeat 

Joseph  Leiser 


/  DREAMED  of  a  palace  I  might  build, 

Gorgeous  beyond  compare, 
Woes  that  burdened  me  in  my  days 

Languished  and  perished  there. 
And  I  told  my  dream  to  those  of  my  kin 

And  they  laughed  at  the  dream  I  dreamed; 
And  I  let  them  laugh  for  the  joy  that  it  bred 

And  the  childish  whim  it  seemed. 

But  toiling  and  spending  my  life  was  lived, 

Wayward  and  small  of  gain; 
And  the  palace  I  dreamed  to  shelter  me 

Dimmed  as  old  moons  wane. 
Then  I,  too,  laughed  at  the  thing  I  prized 

And  I  knew  that  my  dream  was  chaff: 
For  I  sold  the  faith  in  my  own  soul 

And  became  as  the  fools  who  laugh. 


Back  to  the  Mother  :  A  Prayer 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


A  T  evening  1  came  to  the  wood,  and  threw  myself  on  the 

breast 
Of  the  great  green  Mother,  weeping,  and  the  arms  of  a 

thousand  trees 
Waved  and  rustled  in  welcome,  and  murmured,  "  Rest  — 

Rest—  Rest! 

The  leaves,  thy  brothers,  shall  heal  thee,   and  thy 

sisters,  the  flowers,  bring  peace." 

At  length  I  stayed  from  my  weeping,  and  lifted  my  face 

from  the  grass; 
The  moon  was  walking  the  wood,  with  feet  of  mysterious 

pearl, 
And  the  great  trees  held  their  breath,  trance-like,  watching 

her  pass, 

And  a  bird  called  out  of  the  shadows,  with  voice  as  sweet 
as  a  girl. 

And  then,  in  the  holy  silence,  to  the  great  green  Mother  I 

prayed  : 
"  Take  me  again  to  thy  bosom,  thy  son  who  so  close  to 

thee 

Aforetime,  filial,  clung;  then  into  the  city  strayed  — 
The  painted  face  of  the  town,  the  wine  and  the  harlotry. 

"  Bathe  me  in  lustral  dawns,  and  the  morning  star,  and 

the  dew; 
Make  pure  my  heart  as  a  bird,  and  innocent  as  a  flower, 

*Cowiety  of  John  Lane  Co.,  owners  of  copyright. 


Make  sweet  my  thoughts  as  the  meadow  mint — 0  make  me 

all  anew — 

And  in  the  strength  of  beech  and  oak  gird  up  my  will 
with  power. 

"  /  have  wandered  far,  0  my  Mother,  but  here  I  return  at 

the  last, 

Never  again  to  stray  in  pilgrimage  wanton  and  wild; 
A  broken  heart  and  a  contrite  here  at  thy  feet  I  cast, 
0  take  me  back  to  thy   bosom!  " — and  the  Mother 
murmured,  "  Child." 


The  Convict 

S.  Tyson  Kinsell 


ACROSS  the  bridge  of  sighs! 

This  way 

Few  mortals  pass 
Again  to  see  the  light  of  day. 

And  passing, 

Rays  of  hope  no  longer  shine;  — 
Away!  In  solitude  to  pine, 

'Mid  shadows  dark, 
And  scenes  o'er  spread  with  gloom; 

To  lay  them  down, 

Disconsolate, 
In  Civilization's  tomb! 


For  You 

Chester  Wood 


YOU — you  man  or  you  woman,  young  or  old,  why  are  you 

afraid  ? 
What  are  you  fearful  about  in  your  secret  thought  or 

whining  about  to  others? 

Perhaps  you  have  some  disease,  but  what  does  that  matter  ? 
It  can  not  kill  you — your  soul;  nothing  can  kill  your  soul, 

because  your  soul  is  God. 
God,  the  Eternal  Goodness,  made  all — all — all. 
There  is  nothing  outside  of  God,  for  the  whole  of  anything 

includes  every  one  of  its  parts. 
So  what  are  you  afraid  of  in  your  secret  thought,  or  whining 

about  to  others? 

Sickness,  poverty,  trouble!  These  are  the  prods  and  switch- 
ings to  keep  you  moving  and  thinking;  part  of  the 

exercises  for  your  development. 

Perhaps  you  are  trying  to  wear  some  one's  old  religion? 
It  does  n't  fit  you,  and  makes  you  uneasy;  it  has  an  old, 

bad,  musty  odor,  and  is  all  the  while  dropping  to 

pieces. 
Throw  it  away — take  a  bath  of  freedom,  and  get  a  new 

outfit. 
Don't  mind  what  your  friends  may  say;  let  them  wear 

whatever  pleases  them,  and  claim  the  same  right  for 

yourself. 

Oh,  you  're  "  afraid  to  be  alone  "!  You  want  to  be  with  the 

crowd,  like  most  of  the  lower  animals. 
Well,  then  you  must  submit  to  the  many,  and  have  their 

hindrances. 
But  up — up  on  the  mountains  there  are  hosts  of  wonderful 

horsemen — horsemen  and  chariots  of  fire, 
Men  of  power  and  knowledge,  and  you  can  be  one  of  them. 


160 


But  "  death,  death!  "  you  moan,  "  the  fear  of  death  is 

upon  me." 

You  are  dying  every  second;  everything  is  doing  the  same. 
But  death  is  life  developing. 
Don't  you  think  the  All-Good  knows  what  he  is  about  in 

carrying  on  this  plan? 

But  "  the  final  judgment"  you  gasp. 

Pah!  This  is  a  breath  of  your  moldy  religion. 

What  do  you  mean  by  "final  "? 

There  is  no  time  with  God,  who  is  your  soul. 

With  him  a  thousand  years  are  as  a  day,  and  a  day  as  a 

thousand  years;  for  he  is  the  same  yesterday,  today 

and  forever. 
"  Final  judgment!  "  You  have  passed  through  millions 

and  millions  of  them  already,  and  you  will  pass 

through  many  millions  more. 
A  final  judgment  is  when  you  pass  forever  out  of  some 

stage  or  condition  of  Evolution. 
As  when  you  left  the  life  of  a  grain  of  sand,  or  the  life  in 

the  plant,  the  tiger, the  apelike  animal,the  animal  man. 
Until  you  arrived  where  you  are  now,  at  another  final 

judgment  where  you  separate  the  tares  of  fear,  of 

death,  of  judgment,  out  of  your  life  forever, 
And  dying  to  such  thoughts,  pass  into  the  world  of  perfect 

love;  into  the  consciousness  of  the  at-one-ment  with 

the  Eternal  Good. 


WORK  thoufor  pleasure;  paint  or  sing  or  carve 
The  thing  thou  lovest,  though  the  body  starve. 
Who  works  for  glory  misses  oft  the  goal ; 
Who  works  for  money  coins  his  very  soul. 
Work  for  work's  sake  then,  and  it  well  may  be 
That  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  thee. 

— Kenyan  Cox 


The  Kings  Ride 

Milton  Murdoch.* 


OVER  the  mountain,  over  the  vale, 
Out  of  the  North  the  Storm  King  whirled 

With  his  mettled  stallions  Rain  and  Gale, 
And  oft  and  ever  his  bolts  he  hurled. 

His  chariot-wheels  shook  Earth  and  Sky 

As  with  trumpet  tones  he  thundered  by. 

"  On,  on,  my  coursers,  aye,  test  your  speed! 
On,  on  in  the  track  of  the  veiled  Night! 

Away,  ye  are  worthy  your  King  indeed 
As  ye  stretch  afar  in  your  headlong  flight! 

Naught,  prides  of  my  Realm,  can  your  power  resist, 

And  I  guide  ye,  I  guide  ye  whither  I  list! 

"  Steady,  my  chargers,  steady,  I  say, 
A  shaft  at  yon  giant  Pine  I  'II  cast! 

'T  is  sped.  Ha!  Ha!  see  him  reel  and  sway! 
Ha!  Ha!  he  is  shattered  and  prone  at  last! 

And  the  Oaks,  his  shelter  in  youthful  years, 

Bend  low  'mid  their  moans  and  their  falling  tears! 

"  Speed,  sport  of  thy  Sovereign,  Rain  and  Gale! 
Speed,  speed  thee  away  to  the  bounds  of  space ! 

I  'II  ply  this  Prairie  with  icy  hail 
And  pelt  the  Lake  with  his  laughing  face ! 

Aye,  and  random  bolts  will  I  fling  and  flash 

To  'waken  the  echoes  with  crash  on  crash ! 

"Fly,  fly,  my  furies,  the  mighty  Plain, 
Fit  course  for  a  King,  lies  parched  and  drear! 
His  scope  is  grand  as  the  stormy  main, 

*ln  the  March  (1907)  "  Metropolitan." 


And  we  'II  scatter  and  drench  his  herbage  sere! 
Fly,  fly!  —  Nay,  but  mark  how  those  pigmy  gnomes 
Have  reared  in  my  pathway  their  hives  and  homes! 

"  The  templed  City  with  tower  and  spire 
—  The  work  of  Man  and  his  puny  might  — 

/  '//  sweep  in  mine  anger  with  flood  and  fire, 
My  beauties,  my  beauties  black  as  Night! 

Haste,  haste,  there  's  a  glow  —  Aye,  our  race  is  run. 

Away  !  We  must  vanish  !  The  Sun  !  The  Sun  !  " 


The  Boomerang 

Capt.  Jack  Crawford 


WHEN  a  bit  of  sunshine  hits  ye, 

After  passing  of  a  cloud, 
When  a  fit  of  laughter  gits  ye 

And  ye'r  spine  is  feelin'  proud, 
Don't  forget  to  up  and  fling  it 

At  a  soul  that's  feelin'  blue, 
For  the  minit  that  ye  sling  it 

It's  a  boomerang  to  you. 


A  ROSE  to  the  living  is  more 

Than  sumptuous  wreaths  to  the  dead; 

In  filling  love's  infinite  store, 

A  rose  to  the  living  is  more 

If  graciously  given  before 

The  hungering  spirit  is  fled  — 

A  rose  to  the  living  is  more, 

Than  sumptuous  wreaths  to  the  dead. 

—  Nixon  Waterman 


There  Is  No  Death 

J  .  L.  McCreary 


THERE  is  no  death!  the  stars  go  down 

To  rise  upon  some  other  shore, 
And  bright  in  heaven's  jeweled  crown 

They  shine  forever  more. 

There  is  no  death  !  the  forest  leaves 

Convert  to  life  the  viewless  air; 
The  rocks  disorganize  to  feed 

The  hungry  moss  they  bear. 

Th&re  is  no  death  !  the  dust  we  tread 
Shall  change,  beneath  the  summer  showers, 

To  golden  grain,  or  mellow  fruit, 
Or  rainbow-tinted  flowers. 

There  is  no  death!  the  leaves  may  fall, 
The  flowers  may  fade  and  pass  away  — 

They  only  wait,  through  wintry  hours, 
The  warm,  sweet  breath  of  May. 

There  is  no  death  !  the  choicest  gifts 
That  heaven  hath  kindly  lent  to  earth 

Are  ever  first  to  seek  again 
The  country  of  their  birth. 

And  all  things  that  for  growth  of  joy 

Are  worthy  of  our  love  or  care, 
Whose  loss  has  left  us  desolate 

Are  safely  garnered  there. 


!/ 


164 


Though  life  become  a  dreary  waste, 
We  know  its  fairest,  sweetest  flowers, 

Transplanted  into  paradise, 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  voice  of  bird-like  melody 

That  we  have  missed  and  mourned  so  long 
Now  mingles  with  the  angel  choir 

In  everlasting  song. 

There  is  no  death !  although  we  grieve 
When  beautiful,  familiar  forms 

That  we  have  learned  to  love  are  torn 
From  our  embracing  arms. 

Although  with  bowed  and  breaking  heart, 
With  sable  garb  and  silent  tread, 

We  bear  their  senseless  dust  to  rest, 
And  say  that  they  are  "  dead" 

They  are  not  dead!  they  have  but  passed 
Beyond  the  mists  that  blind  us  here 

Into  the  new  and  larger  life 
Of  that  serener  sphere. 

They  have  but  dropped  their  robe  of  clay 
To  put  their  shining  raiment  on; 

They  have  not  wandered  far  away — 
They  are  not  "  lost  "  or  "  gone" 

Though  disenthralled  and  glorified. 
They  still  are  here  and  love  us  yet; 

The  dear  ones  they  have  left  behind 
They  never  can  forget. 


And  sometimes,  when  our  hearts  grow  faint 
Amid  temptations  fierce  and  deep, 

Or  when  the  wildly  raging  waves 
Of  grief  or  passion  sweep, 

We  feel  upon  our  fevered  brow 

Their  gentle  touch,  their  breath  of  balm; 
Their  arms  enfold  us,  and  our  hearts 

Grow  comforted  and  calm. 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 
The  dear,  immortal  spirits  tread; 

For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life  —  there  are  no  dead. 


The  Peasant  Soldier 

James  J.  Montague 


HE  has  no  hope  for  conquest;  he  has  no  lust  for  power; 
His  bosom  does  not  burn  to  share  in  triumph's  glorious 

hour; 

He  bears  no  hatred  in  his  heart  against  his  brother  man; 
Unlearned  he  in  strategy,  or  statesman's  scheme  or  plan. 
But  when  throughout  the  troubled  land  there  rings  the 

battle-cry, 
Unknowing  and  unquestioning,  he  marches  forth  to  die. 

No  prizes  are  there  to  be  gained  for  his  too  common  kind; 
He  wins  no  splendid  spoils  of  war  for  those  he  leaves  behind. 
Whatever  glory  there  may  be  the  great  ones  of  the  earth 
Will  never  yield  to  his  mean  kin,  all  folk  of  peasant  birth. 
But  when  he  sees  upon  the  hills  the  battle-banners  fly 
He  marches  calmly  to  his  death  —  nor  thinks  to  wonder  why. 


166 


Worship 

Hugh  Robert  Orr 


I  WORSHIP  all  the  brave: 
Not  only  warriors  slain  on  battlefield, 
Not  only  heroes  named  on  printed  page, 
Not  only  those  paid  well  and  lauded  most; 
I  worship  those  brave  hearts  who  never  knew 
The  glamour  and  the  glare  of  fortune's  fame, 
And  yet  toiled  on  in  their  unhonored  place, 
With  mighty  purpose  and  with  steadfast  faith 
That  honest  toil  and  justice  save  the  race. 

I  worship  all  the  pure: 
All-glorious  Mazda,  ruler  of  the  day, 
The  white  moon  and  the  dancing  stars  of  night, 
All  Nature  in  her  unmarred  virgin  state, 
The  flower  of  field,  the  bird  of  forest  trees, 
The  winter  snow,  the  rain,  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  bears  the  smell  of  soft  green  sod  in  spring — 
What  can  I  worship  that  's  more  pure  in  heart 
Than  Nature,  hallowed  by  the  hand  of  God  ? 

I  worship  all  the  good: 

Gotama,  Jesus,  Plato,  all  the  rest 

Who  for  an  ideal  sacrificed  a  world, 

Who  hated  evil,  dared  to  seek  the  Good, 

And  when  each  found  the  Way  of  Highest  Good, 

He  called  hisfellowmen  to  follow  him; 

Unselfish  in  his  deeds,  each  gave  his  life 

To  guard  the  weak  and  lead  the  valiant  ones, 

To  teach  men  love  and  great,  strong  brotherhood. 


167 


Hope ! 

Helena  Bingham  Burton 


IT  lies  within  to  love  aright 

That  which  I  would  possess — 

Because  some  one  has  said 

'  T  is  sweeter  far  to  hope  than  't  is  to  have, 

Must  I  be  guided  by  that  one 

Who  knows  not  how  to  cherish 

After  that  the  hope  is  realized, 

And  lose  for  aye  what  consciousness  doth  say 

Would  be  my  great  possession? 

'  T  is  sweet  to  hope — 
'  T  is  sweeter  far  to  realize  that  hope. 
That  human  heart  were  base  indeed 
That  sacrifice  would  make  of  the  heart, 
The  thought,  the  circumstance, 
That  had  been  yielded  to  possession. 

If  minds  are  molded  on  the  noble  plan, 

Where  each  for  each  the  proper  thought  doth  have, 

Then  where  the  loss  of  sweetness 

In  possession  ? 

What  is  it  we  should  hope  for 

And  be  happier  without  ? 

Is  it  companionship  of  one  of  worth, 

One  we  know  would  be  an  attribute  complete, 

To  any  life  who  dared  to  hope  it  true  ? 

Of  Hope — a  means  to  have  my  greatest  need 
I  'd  make — not  that  to  always  wish  for, 
Never  grasp — then  when  in  blest  possession, 
By  my  life  prove  that  to  hope  for  and  to  gain 
Had  of  life's  great  blessings  yielded  most. 


168 


A  Prayer  in  Time  of  War 

Alfred  Noyes 


THOU,  whose  deep  ways  are  in  the  sea, 
Whose  footsteps  are  not  known, 

Tonight  a  world  that  turned  from  Thee 
Is  waiting  —  at  Thy  Throne. 

The  towering  Babels  that  we  raised 
Where  scoffing  sophists  brawl, 

The  little  Antichrists  we  praised  — 
The  night  is  on  them  all. 

The  fool  hath  said  .  .  .  The  fool  hath  said  . 

And  we,  who  deemed  him  wise, 
We  who  believed  that  Thou  wast  dead, 

How  should  we  seek  Thine  eyes? 

How  should  we  look  to  Thee  for  power 
Who  scorned  Thee  yesterday  ? 

How  should  we  kneel,  in  this  dread  hour  ? 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 

Grant  us  the  single  heart,  once  more, 

That  mocks  no  sacred  thing, 
The  Sword  of  Truth  our  fathers  wore 

When  Thou  wast  Lord  and  King. 

Let  darkness  unto  darkness  tell 

Our  deep  unspoken  prayer, 
For,  while  our  souls  in  darkness  dwell, 

We  know  that  Thou  art  there. 


If  This  Were  Faith! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


GOD!  If  this  were  enough, 
That  I  see  things  bare  to  the  buff 
And  up  to  the  buttocks  in  mire. 
That  I  ask  nor  hope  nor  hire, 
Not  in  the  husk, 
Nor  dawn  beyond  the  dusk, 
Nor  life  beyond  death  : 
God  —  if  this  were  faith  ! 

Having  felt  Thy  wind  in  my  face 

Spit  sorrow  and  disgrace, 

Having  seen  Thy  evil  doom 

In  Golgotha  and  Khartum, 

And  the  brutes,  the  work  of  Thine  hands, 

Fill  with  injustice  lands 

And  stain  with  blood  the  sea. 

If  still  in  my  veins  the  glee 

Of  the  black  night  and  the  sun 

And  the  lost  battle  run; 

If,  an  adept, 

The  iniquitous  lists  I  still  accept 

With  joy,  and  joy  to  endure  and  be  withstood, 

And  still  to  battle  and  perish  for  a  dream  of  good, 

God  —  if  that  were  enough! 

If  to  feel  in  the  ink  of  the  slough 

And  the  sink  of  the  mire 

Veins  of  glory  and  fire 

Run  through  and  transpierce  and  transpire, 


k 

h 


And  a  secret  purpose  of  glory  fill  each  part, 

And  the  answering  glory  of  battle  fill  my  heart; 

To  thrill  with  the  joy  of  girded  men, 

To  go  on  forever  and  fail,  and  go  on  again, 

And  be  mauled  to  the  earth  and  arise, 

And  contend  for  the  shade  of  a  word  and  a  thing  not  seen 

with  the  eyes, 

With  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  at  night 
That  somehow  the  right  is  the  right, 
And  the  smooth  shall  bloom  from  the  rough : 
Lord — if  that  were  enough ! 

« 

A  Sonnet 

Arthur  E.  Luedy 


0  Thought,  stir  up  again  the  sacred  past; 
Stir  up  the  fading  years  that  went  so  fast, 
The  blissful  days  that  held  no  cares  or  strife, 
The  peaceful  nights  that  gave  each  hope  new  life; 
Dig  in  the  deep-worn  trenches  of  my  brow 
For  rarest  gems,  turned  under  by  Time's  plow, 
For  sweet  memories  of  love's  first  pleasures; 
Give  my  mind  to  feast  on  all  these  treasures : 
For  now  the  years  hang  heavy  o'er  my  head; 
My  heart  is  cold,  of  rapture  it  is  bled , 
My  dreams  and  hopes  lie  dormant  at  their  birth, 
The  years  have  fleeced  my  soul  of  mirth. 
When  young,  I  lived  on  what  the  future  quoth, 
But  now,  I  cherish  in  my  thoughts  of  youth. 


Existence  Eternal 

S.  Tyson  Kinsell 


AH  ,  cowW  6w£  now  my  living  soul 

Hear  voices  from  Valhalla's  dead; 
I  'd  crush  the  universal  dole; 

I  'd  check  the  valiant  tears  you  shed. 
A  cavern  vast  —  a  chasm  deep, 

Hard  by  the  Stygian  fields  is  laid; 
The  tombs  of  men  are  sadly  steeped 

With  tether'  d  thoughts  in  ambuscade. 

But,  harken!  Will  the  Wind  of  Death 

Waft  zephyrs  from  Nirvana's  shore, 
While  I,  intent,  with  bated  breath, 

Wait  knowledge  from  the  nevermore? 
Let  sacred  rantipoles  defend 

Pythonic,  iridescent  dreams. 
What  doth  it  to  our  hearts  portend? 

Whence  comes  their  light,  or  whence  its  gleams? 

Why  from  the  Garden  of  the  Heart 

Exclude  the  Light,  the  Sun,  the  Air; 
Why  trample  in  this  sacred  mart 

The  Flowers  of  Reason  bloss'ming  there? 
Will  ghosts  of  dead  and  blasted  creeds, 

Which  long  enslaved  ancestral  man  — 
Will  these  supply  your  mortal  needs, 

Or  rend  in  twain  proud  Nature's  plan? 

Will  chant  of  robed  and  kneeling  priests  — 

The  tremor  of  the  organ's  peal  — 
Will  doleful  songs  or  sacred  feasts 

Determine  future  woe  or  weal? 
Will  chapels  dim  with  mighty  height, 

And  rich  with  legend  carved  in  stone  — 


)/ 


Will  pictures  of  the  martyred  Christ, 
For  crimes  and  villainies  atone? 


Shall  superstition  once  more  rear 

Her  ugly,  medieval  head, 
And  from  the  realms  of  darkness  tear 

The  witherings  of  creeds  long  dead? 
JT  is  but  a  breath  from  dawn  'til  day; 

From  night  'til  dawn  another  shade — 
Who  then  shall  damn  me  if  I  pray 

That  Stygian  night  for  aye  shall  fade! 

Shall  we  unto  the  dust  return? 

Aye !  Hearts  of  dust  we  can  not  rend. 
If  for  those  ashes  we  shall  mourn, 

Then,  unto  them  I  'II  meekly  bend 
My  mortal  knee  in  silent  prayer, 

That  in  their  thanatoid  repose, 
Proud  spirits  there  may  rest  for  e'er 

Or  bud  them  forth  a  primal  rose. 

Begone  for  aye,  each  clouted  doubt : 

For  aught  I  cringe  in  fear, 
What  saintly  vassal,  knighted  lout, 

Returns  from  thence  to  blandly  steer 
My  frail  but  ardent  Pythian  bark — 

Sad  eon  of  unrequited  tears — 
Through  channels  light,  from  caverns  dark; 

To  hope  and  joy,  from  Satan's  leer! 


THE  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept. 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

— Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


The  Prayer  of  Women 

Fiona  McLeod 

•8 

0  SPIRIT  that  broods  upon  the  hills 

And  moves  upon  the  face  of  the  deep, 

And  is  heard  in  the  wind, 

Save  us  from  the  desire  of  men's  eyes, 

And  the  cruel  lust  of  them! 

Save  us  from  the  springing  of  the  cruel  seed 

In  that  narrow  house  which  is  as  the  grave 

For  darkness  and  loneliness.  .  .  . 

That  women  carry  with  them  with  shame,  and  weariness, 

and  long  pain, 

Only  for  the  laughter  of  man's  heart, 
And  for  the  joy  that  triumphs  therein, 
And  the  sport  that  is  in  his  heart, 
Wherewith  he  mocketh  us, 
Wherewith  he  playeth  with  us, 
Wherewith  he  trampleth  upon  us.  .  .  . 
Us,  who  conceive  and  bear  him; 
Us,  who  bring  him  forth; 
Who  feed  him  in  the  womb,  and  at  the  breast,  and  at  the 

knee : 

Whom  he  calleth  mother  and  wife, 
And  mother  again  of  his  children  and  his  children's 

children. 

Ah,  hour  of  the  hours, 

When  he  looks  at  our  hair  and  sees  it  is  gray; 
And  at  our  eyes  and  sees  they  are  dim; 
And  at  our  lips  straightened  out  with  long  pain; 
And  at  our  breasts,  fallen  and  seared  as  a  barren  hill; 
And  at  our  hands,  worn  with  toil! 
Ah,  hour  of  the  hours, 

When,  seeing,  he  seeth  all  the  bitter  ruin  and  wreck  of  us — 
All  save  the  violated  womb  that  curses  him — 


I 


All  save  the  heart  that  forbeareth  .  .  .  for  pity — 

All  save  the  living  brain  that  condemneth  him — 

All  save  the  spirit  that  shall  not  mate  with  him — 

All  save  the  soul  he  shall  never  see 

Till  he  be  one  with  it,  and  equal; 

He  who  hath  the  bridle,  but  guideth  not; 

He  who  hath  the  whip,  yet  is  driven; 

He  who  as  a  shepherd  calleth  upon  us, 

But  is  himself  a  lost  sheep,  crying  among  the  hills ! 

0  spirit,  and  the  Nine  Angels  who  watch  us, 

And  Thou,  white  Christ,  and  Mary,  Mother  of  Sorrow, 

Heal  us  of  the  wrong  of  man : 

We  whose  breasts  are  weary  with  milk, 

Cry,  cry  to  Thee,  0  Compassionate! 


By  the  Forest 

Herman  E.  Kittredge 


NIGHT'S  noontide  pales. 
The  moon  anon  peers  through  her  raveled  veil, 

As  if  to  glimpse  the  stars, 
That,  iridescent,  lie  just  dimmed, 
As  gossamer  dew  at  dawning  dims  the  flowers  .  . 
And  where  by  day  the  sun  and  wind  conspire 

To  weave  on  rustling  looms  of  leaves 

The  tremulous  tapestries  of  dusk  and  gold, 

The  sable  draperies  are  motionless, 

The  ebon  archways  all  are  still  .... 

But  from  within  — 

Far,  far  within  — 

Beyond  the  vision's  utmost  ken  — 

A  lone  owl's  monstrous  monotone. 


The  Old  National  Road 

F.  M.  Zehliman 


THE  old  National  Road!  What  a  play  of  romance 
Is  called  up  by  the  name!  and  the  shadows  advance 
From  their  corners  obscure  at  the  back  of  the  stage, 
And  evolve  into  shapes  —  into  scenes  of  an  age 
Whose  sweet  graces  were  too  quaint  and  homely  to  last, 
And  are  gone  with  the  roses  and  rue  of  the  past! 
Let  the  bard,  to  the  strains  of  his  lyre,  frame  an  ode 
To  that  Highway  of  Hope  —  the  old  National  Road! 

From  the  sweet-smelling  Maryland  meadows  it  crawled, 
Through  the  forest  primeval,  oer  hills  granite-walled; 
On  and  up,  up  and  on,  till  it  conquered  the  crest 
Of  the  mountains  —  and  wound  away  into  the  West. 
'T  was  the  Highway  of  Hope!  And  the  pilgrims  who  trod 
It  were  Lords  of  the  Woodland  and  Sons  of  the  Sod; 
And  the  hope  of  their  hearts  was  to  win  an  abode 
At  the  end  —  the  far  end  of  the  National  Road. 

The  old  National  Road!  It  stretches  on  —  ever  on; 
Towards  that  land  where  humanity's  vanguard  had  gone; 
Past  the  spring  on  the  mountain,  the  rill  in  the  dale  — 
By  the  hut  on  the  hillside,  the  inn  in  the  vale. 
And  the  beings  it  loved  and  the  people  it  knew 
Were  untutored  and  primitive,  kindly  and  true; 
And  the  face  of  the  midsummer  sun  ever  glowed 
With  a  smile  for  the  faithful  old  National  Road. 

From  the  foot  of  the  mountain  still  Westward  it  trailed, 
Till  the  footprints  of  settlement  faltered  —  and  failed; 
Under  skies  that  were  blustering,  skies  that  were  bland, 
Over  turbulent  streams  that  no  bridge  had  e'er  spanned, 
But  the  rainbow  of  Promise;  and  ended  its  quest 
Where  the  birds  and  the  brooks  of  Ohio  sang  —  "  Rest." 


176 


"  Equal  chances  and  favors  for  all!  "  was  the  code 
Of  the  open  and  honest  old  National  Road. 

The  old  National  Road!  In  the  heat  and  the  cold 
There  the  emigrant's  canvas-topped  vehicles  rolled; 
*  T  was  a  great  Conestoga — its  wheels  groaning  sore 
Of  the  journey  they  made  and  the  burden  they  bore. 
Uncomplaining  the  lank  oxen  swaggered  and  swung, 
Under  yoke,  at  the  sides  of  the  teetering  tongue; 
And  the  family  cow,  poor  and  patient,  was  towed 
At  the  end  of  a  rope — down  the  National  Road. 


The  Mockingbird 

Sidney  Lanier 


SUPERB  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray 
That  o'er  the  general  leafage  boldly  grew, 
He  summ'd  the  woods  in  song;  or  typic  drew 
The  watch  of  hungry  hawks,  the  lone  dismay 
Of  languid  doves  when  long  their  lovers  stray, 
And  all  birds'  passion-plays  that  sprinkle  dew 
At  morn  in  brake  or  bosky  avenue. 
Whale'  er  birds  did  or  dreamed,  this  bird  could  say. 
Then  down  he  shot,  bounced  airily  along 
The  sward,  twitched  in  a  grasshopper,  made  song 
Midflight,  perched,  prinked,  and  to  his  art  again. 
Sweet  Science,  this  large  riddle  read  me  plain  : 
How  may  the  death  of  that  dull  insect  be 
The  life  of  yon  trim  Shakespeare  on  the  tree? 


The  Song  of  the  City 

Chester  Wood 


The  Northern  Buddhist  —  and  all  Chinamen,  in  fact—  find 
in  the  deep  roar  of  some  of  the  great  and  sacred  rivers  the 
keynote  of  Nature.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  in  Physical 
Science  as  well  as  in  Occultism  that  the  aggregate  sound  of 
Nature,  such  as  is  heard  in  the  roar  of  great  rivers,  and  the 
noise  produced  by  the  waving  of  tops  of  trees  in  large 
forests,  or  that  of  a  city  heard  at  a  distance,  is  a  definite 
single  tone  of  quite  an  appreciable  pitch.  Thus  Professor 
Rice  "  Chinese  Music  "  shows  that  the  Chinese  recognized 
the  fact  thousands  of  years  ago  by  saying  that  "  the  waters 
of  the  Hoang-ho  rushing  by  intoned  the  "  kung,"  called 
"  the  great  tone  "  in  Chinese  music;  and  he  shows  this 
tone  corresponding  with  the  F,  considered  by  modern 
physicists  to  be  the  actual  tonic  of  Nature.  Professor  B. 
Silliman  mentions  it,  too,  in  his  "  Principles  of  Physics," 
saying  that  "  this  tone  is  held  to  be  middle  F  of  the  piano, 
which  may,  therefore,  be  considered  the  keynote  of  Nature" 

ALOFT,  alone  in  my  far,  high  room, 

I  hear  the  breathing,  beating  boom, 

The  endless  Song  of  the  City! 

The  Gods  are  at  work  at  their  mighty  loom, 

The  Gods  of  Humanity's  weal  and  doom, 

Of  Life  and  Death  and  Hate  and  Pity. 

And  like  the  roar 

Of  a  tempest  o'er 

The  tops  of  the  forest  crashing; 

Like  the  surf-beat  shore 

Where  evermore 

The  Ocean  waves  are  dashing, 


k 

h 


178 


Now  the  mystic  ear 

Of  spirit  can  hear 

One  tone  supreme  all  dominating; 

Over  this  busy,  beehive  hum, 

Out  of  the  city's  sounding  drum, 

I  feel  this  one,  great  note  vibrating, 

"  God  's  in  His  world,  and  good  shall  come 

Out  of  this  toiling  and  hating," 


Rosemother 

Marie  Louise  Emerson 

•8 

God  blest  the  Earth  —  the  Earth  conceived 
a  Rose;  and  the  Rose  became  a  Mother  ! 

FOR  Mother  meihinks  the  symbolic  flower 
Is  the  reddest  and  whitest  Rose  I 

Each  petal  as  it  falls  a  rosary  bead  and  prayer, 
And  each  thorn  a  sacrifice  to  love's  woes. 

The  enduring  breath  of  the  intense  red 
Incense  on  Motherhood's  altar-fire  burned! 

The  white  waxen  leaves  of  the  Rose  that  was  red, 
Personified  Purity!  an  Angel's  shroud  earned. 

Oh  !  Shelter  the  Rose  that  is  red 
From  the  storms  of  every-day  life  ! 

Lest  its  tender  leaves  wither  and  fade 
And  tomorrow  you  find  it  turned  white. 

Oh!  Cherish  the  Rose  that  is  white  — 
Its  petals  are  blanched  from  pain  ! 

With  its  clinging  fragrance  her  memory  unite 
And  hold  precious!  as  your  life  to  her  has  been. 


Columbus* 

Joaquin  Miller 


BEHIND  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 

Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores  ; 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 

The  good  mate  said:  "  Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo!  the  very  stars  are  gone. 

Brave  Adm'r'l,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?  " 

"  Why,  say:  '  Sail  on!  and  on!  ' 

"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 
My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;  a  spray 
Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'r'l,  say, 
If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?  " 
"  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day: 
'  Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!  * 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said  : 

"  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 

These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 

Now  speak,  brave  Adm'r'l;  speak  and  say  -  " 

He  said:  "  Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!  " 

They  sailed.  They  sailed.  Then  spake  the  mate: 

"  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  tonight. 

He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite! 

Brave  Adm'r'l,  say  but  one  good  word  : 

Courtesy  of  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Co. 


ISO 


What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword  : 
"Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 
And  peered  through  darkness.  Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights!  And  then  a  speck  — 
A  light  !  A  light  I  A  light  !  A  light  ! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled  ! 
It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world 
Its  grandest  lesson:  "  On!  sail  on!" 


Tojoaquin  Miller,  the  Poet  of 
The  Mights 

Frances  V.  Barton 

•8 

NOT  only  dwells  his  body  on  The  Hights  — 
His  soul  is  all  attuned  to  lofty  things. 
Like  gods  of  old  upon  Olympiad, 
He  rises  far  above  the  baser  aims 
And  petty  schemes  that  hold  men  down, 
Bound  as  with  fetters  to  the  plains  below. 

Serene  and  fearless  looks  he  forth  on  life, 

And  waits  undaunted  what  the  years  may  bring; 

For  wisely  hath  he  chosen  the  better  part  , 

And  lived  as  Nature  and  his  heart  decreed; 

Unmindful  of  Convention's  tyranny, 

Or  Fashion's  bonds,  or  Envy's  bitter  sneer. 

Beloved  by  all  who  know  and  understand, 

The  power  and  beauty  of  his  master  mind; 

The  strength  and  fervor  of  his  noble  heart; 

The  depth  of  love  bestowed  where  loye  is  due; 

The  staunch  yet  childlike  trust  in  friends  proved  true; 

The  manly  courage  for  the  good  and  right. 


The  House  by  the  Side  of  the  Road* 

Sam  Walter  Foss 


THERE  are  hermit  souls  that  live  withdrawn, 

In  the  peace  of  their  self-content; 
There  are  souls,  like  stars,  that  dwell  apart 

In  a  fellowless  firmament  ; 
There  are  pioneer  souls  that  blaze  their  paths 

Where  the  highways  never  ran  — 
But  let  me  live  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by  — 
The  men  who  are  good,  and  the  men  who  are  bad, 

As  good  and  as  bad  as  I. 
I  would  not  sit  in  the  scorned  s  seat, 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban  — 
Let  me  live  in  a  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  see  from  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road  — 

By  the  side  of  the  highway  of  life, 
The  men  who  press  with  the  ardor  of  hope, 

The  men  who  are  faint  with  strife. 
But  I  turn  not  away  from  their  smiles  nor  their  tears  — 

Both  parts  of  an  Infinite  plan  — 
Let  me  live  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

I  know  there  are  brook-gladdened  meadows  ahead, 

And  mountains  of  wearisome  height; 
And  the  road  passes  on  through  the  long  afternoon, 

And  stretches  away  to  the  night. 

'From  "  Dreamt  in  Homeipun,"  copyright,  1897,  by  Lee  and  Shepard.  Used  by  special 
permission  of  Lothrop,  Lee  and  Shepard  Co. 


182 


CTl 


But  still  I  rejoice  when  the  travelers  rejoice. 
And  weep  with  the  strangers  that  moan, 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
And  be  a  friend  to  man. 

Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

Where  the  race  of  men  go  by  — 
They  are  good — they  are  bad — weak  and  strong, 

Wise — foolish,  so  am  I. 
Then  why  should  I  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat 

Or  hurl  the  cynic's  ban? 
Let  me  live  in  my  house  by  the  side  of  the  road, 

And  be  a  friend  to  man. 


The  Invitation 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


AWAY,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wildwood  and  the  downs 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another's  mind 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 
To  the  wildwoods  and  the  plains 
And  the  pools  where  Winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves. 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea. 


For  Ninety  Years 

To  Doctor  Silas  Hubbard  on  his  Ninety-first  Birthday, 
May  Ninth,  Nineteen  Hundred  Twelve 


FOR  ninety  years  'mid  hopes  and  fears, 
You  've  stood  a  monument  to  God, 
An  honest  man  since  life  began, 
Sunshine  has  blazed  the  trail  you  trod, 
When  you  prescribed,  all  who  imbibed 
Cared  less  for  medicine  than  you. 
The  nectar  'd  wine  of  God's  sunshine, 
Went  to  the  bull's-eye  straight  and  true. 

The  lessons  taught,  the  smile  you  brought, 

Your  individuality, 

Did  much  I  'm  sure  to  help  and  cure 

With  charming  personality. 

The  best  of  all  when  came  the  call 

From  those  in  very  lowly  station, 

You  helped  the  poor  and  the  obscure, 

And  that  without  remuneration. 

With  wondrous  mind  and  soul  combined, 
With  marvelous  strength  of  will  and  grit, 
There  stiU  appears  near  hundred  years, 
Unclouded  mind  and  ready  wit. 
And  from  the  start  your  mother  heart, 
God's  greatest  gift  to  men  like  you, 
Was  near  each  day  to  watch  and  pray, 
The  faithful  wife  and  mother  too. 

And  so,  dear  friend,  today  I  send 
These  heartfelt  throbs  to  her  and  you, 
This  simple  lay,  this  crude  bouquet 
With  love  unselfish,  pure  and  true. 


\ 

k 

h 


And  when  at  last  you  two  have  passed 
Beyond  the  bright  Celestial  sea, 
Oh!  May  you  stand  at  God's  right  hand, 
Lovers  through  all  eternity. 

Your  bronco  friend,  in  clouds  or  sunshine, 

Capt.  Jack  Crawford 


Laugh  It  Off 

Grenville  Kleiser 

•9 

IF  the  weather  looks  like  rain, 

Laugh  it  off! 
When  you  feel  you  must  complain, 

Laugh  it  off! 

Do  not  sit  and  nurse  your  fears, 
Waste  no  time  in  useless  tears, 
Put  your  faith  in  smiles  and  cheers, 

Laugh  it  off! 

If  men  say  you  're  looking  ill, 

Laugh  it  off! 
Should  they  recommend  a  pill, 

Laugh  it  off! 

Doctors,  druggists  and  disease 
Want  to  do  just  as  they  please, 
You  can  save  their  costly  fees, 

Laugh  it  off! 

If  life  seems  to  go  dead  wrong, 

Laugh  it  off! 
Drown  your  sorrow  in  a  song, 

Laugh  it  off! 

Do  your  work  with  smiling  face, 
Look  ahead  and  keep  the  pace, 
Be  a  winner  in  the  race, 

Laugh  it  off! 


Sjpace 

Oscar  Schleif 


THE  planets  have  quinquillian  miles 

To  run  their  orbits  in, 
But  man  upraises  posts  and  styles 

To  break  and  bark  his  shin; 
His  mind  can  grasp  astronomy, 
But  ruts  in  front  he  can  not  see; — 

I  ask  for  me 

One  simple  boon :  0  give  me  room, 
0  grant  me  liberty  I 

The  flower  on  the  purple  heath 
Has  space  above,  around,  beneath, 
But  man  molds  plaster  o'er  his  head, 
Enwalls  with  stone  an  iron  bed, 

'Neath  roofs  of  lead; 
His  eye  sees  not  the  water's  glint, 
The  noonday  sunshine's  golden  mint, 
Cradled  in  rock,  his  heart  strikes  flint, 

A  mockery! 

Weight  it  with  gold,  a  granite  wreath, 
Case  it  in  marble,  but  bequeath 

To  me 

The  earth,  the  sun,  the  sand,  the  sea, 
Strength  to  expand — and  liberty! 

The  river  flowing  to  the  sea, 
The  wind,  the  wave,  are  free,  are  free ! 
But  man  digs  pitfalls,  forges  chains 
To  bind  him  tighter  to  his  pains, — 

Leave  him  his  gains  ; 
But  0!  for  me  the  summer  sea, 
The  sun-rimmed  sky,  the  humming  bee, 
The  singing  bird,  the  swaying  tree, 
Love,  laughter,  life — and  liberty! 


\ 


Onions 

Frederic  Cooke  Nelson 


WHEN  I  die,  I  don't 

Want  to  be  buried  in  a 

Graveyard. 

I  like  the  earth  and 

The  soil  and  the  loam 

And  the  dirt — 

But  not  to  be  buried  in. 

Instead  of  becoming  a  ghost, 

I  want  to  be 

Onions,  sweet  and  bulbous — 

Redolent  with  joy  and  youth. 

In  a  bed  I  want  to  lie — 

Side  by  side  with  others. 

And  in  the  early  Spring 

They  will  pull  me  up 

With  fair  hands. 

And  soft-eyed  housemaids  will  weep 

As  they  scour  my  hide. 

And  Bridget,  the  cook,  will 

Cream  me,  saying, 

"  To  think  that  He  cost  six  cents!  " 

Then  they  will  set 

Me  on  a  white-clothed  Table. 

And  Dad  will  say  Grace, 

Calling  upon  God  with  Thanksgiving. 

And  after  he  raises  his  head 

He  will  froum  and  say, 

"  My  God,  Marie, 

Do  we  always  have  onions?  " 

And  George  will  eat  me,  and, 

It  being  Wednesday, 

He  will  call  on  Julia, 


And  when  they  kiss 

She  will  know  that  I  am  there. 

I  shall  partake  of  their 

Love 

And  their  Youth 

And  their  Opportunity. 

*********      * 

Give  me  not  Immortality 

(  Mere  spiritual  consecutiveness) — 

Let  me  be  Onions! 

•8 

Poverty 

George  W.  Stevens 

•9 

BE  glad  you  're  poor,  the  clothes  you  wear 
Won't  look  no  worse  for  'nother  tear : 
Be  thankful  that  your  good  corn  cake 
Will  never  give  you  pain  or  ache. 
Be  glad  you  're  poor  and  save  your  hairs 
From  wearing  off  with  business  cares, 
And  fearing  banks  are  going  to  bust, 
And  who  the  deuce  you  're  going  to  trust. 
Be  glad  you  're  poor — no  relative 
Will  grudge  the  time  you  're  going  to  live. 
Don't  always  worry  'bout  your  lot, 
Give  thanks  for  what  you  have  n't  got, 
And  be  content  with  what  you  get 
And  let  the  wealthy  fume  and  fret. 
Then  when  financial  blizzards  come 
And  banks  go  tumbling  'round  like  fun, 
And  stocks  and  bonds  go  galley  ivest — 
Just  thank  your  stars  you  don't  invest. 
Go  prop  your  legs  up  at  the  store 
And  smoke — and  then  be  glad  you  're  poor. 


« 


Mary  Magdalen 

W.  F.  McCaleb 


0  MARY,  they  have  made  believe 
That  you  repentant  turned  and  wept, 
But  I  can  never  more  conceive 
Why  one  should  weep  who  faith  has  kept. 

The  faithless  only  weep,  and  wreak 
Their  might  —  Oh,  hear,  the  winds  are  loud 
Of  human  cries  and  mordant  shriek, 
And  wailings  dumb  of  the  wretched  crowd  — 

So,  what  will  they  dare  say  of  you 
And  me  —  when  the  trumpet  Truth  is  blown, 
When  Time  has  fled,  the  False  turned  true  — 
Our  lives  were  ours,  our  souls  our  own. 


DEAD  poets,  philosophers,  priests, 

Martyrs,  artists,  inventors,  governments  long  since, 
Language-shapers  on  other  shores, 

Nations  once  powerful,  now  reduced,  withdraion  or  desolate, 
I  dare  not  proceed  till  I  respectfully  credit  what  you 

have  left  wafted  hither, 
I  have  perused  it,  own  it  is  admirable  (moving  awhile 

among  if), 
Think  nothing  can   ever   be  greater,   nothing  can  ever 

deserve  more  than  it  deserves, 

Regarding  it  all  intently  a  long  while,  then  dismissing  it, 
I  stand  in  my  place  with  my  own  day  here. 

— Walt  Whitman 


The  Army  of  Bleeding  Feet 

Bartholomew  F.  Griffin 

O'ER  ruined  road,  past  draggled  field, 
O'er  twisted  stones  of  shaken  street, 

Marches  an  army  terrible, 

The  army  of  the  bleeding  feet — 

Of  skirted  feet  that  now  first  leave 
Immaculate  field  and  kitchen  floor — 

Old  feet  that  slept  beside  the  hearth, 
Wee  feet  that  twinkled  by  the  door. 

To  strange  world  past  the  parish  line 

(More  strange  with  sound  and  sight  today), 

Recruited  fast  at  every  hedge, 

The  gathering  army  takes  its  way. 

Commanders  ?  Aye,  they  trudge  ahead — 
Not  badge  but  babe  on  every  breast. 

The  troops?  They  straggle  at  her  skirt, 
From  tot  to  crone,  in  ranks  iU-drest. 

And  uniformed — in  rusty  best 

From  cedarn  chests  and  linen  bags; 

Ah,  rough  the  roads  and  chill  the  winds 
To  sabots  split  and  sudden  rags! 

Equipment?  Aye,  't  is  furnished  well, 
This  army  of  the  old  and  young — 

On  shoulder  bent  a  bundle  small, 
A  doll  from  little  fingers  swung! 


190 


Almost  complete — it  only  lacks 

The  battle  oath  and  cheer  and  song; 

Save  infant  fret  and  aged  sigh, 
Now  dumbly  marches  it  along. 

Past  gaping  window,  roof  and  sitt 
It  fares  to  red  horizon's  edge, 

Past  blackened  furrow,  hearth  and  fane  - 
And  fast  it  grows  at  every  hedge! 

O'er  ruined  road,  past  draggled  field, 
O'er  twisted  stones  of  shaken  street, 

Marches  an  army  terrible, 
The  army  of  the  bleeding  feet. 


The  Lady  Poverty 


Jacob  Fischer 


/  MET  her  on  the  Umbrian  Hills, 
Her  hair  unbound,  her  feet  unshod; 

As  one  whom  secret  glory  fills 
She  walked — alone  with  God. 


I  met  her  in  the  city  street; 

Oh,  changed  was  her  aspect  then  I 
With  heavy  eyes  and  weary  feet 

She  walked  alone — with  men. 


Sing  Him  to  Sleep 

Carl  Nelson 


CLOSE  to  your  heart, 

0  mother,  enfold  him; 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

Your  little  boy 

Is  tired  and  dreamy, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

Out  in  the  lane, 

All  leaf  -hung  and  shady, 

He  has  been  playing  all  the  day  long; 

Now  it  is  night, 

And  safe  in  the  cradle, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

When  by  the  way 

Of  Life  he  must  tarry, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

May  thoughts  of  home, 

The  angels  of  mem'ry, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

Dangers  are  nigh 

And  evils  are  lurking, 

Dimly  the  sent'nels  of  prayer  surround; 

Safely  enshroud, 

Awake  or  in  slumber, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

If  from  the  strife 

They  broken  return  him, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

Whether  with  crown 

Of  fame  or  contumely, 

Sing  him  to  sleep,  0  sing  him  to  sleep! 

Out  in  the  night, 


I 


V 

1) 


192 


A  whippoorwill  crooning 

Carries  a  note  of  Heaven  in  its  song  — 

Close  by  his  side 

May  loved  ones  be  watching  — 

So  may  love  tenderly  sing  him  to  sleep. 

When  at  the  close 

Of  Life's  troubled  journey 

Angels  are  sent  to  call  him  to  sleep, 

Out  in  the  fields 

Mid  grass,  leaves  and  flowers 

Spirits  unseen  will  sing  him  to  sleep. 

Flowers  of  spring 

Will  tell  the  grand  story, 

Story  of  Life's  immortality. 

So  may  he  rest 

In  Nature's  kind  bosom, 

Sing,  0  sing,  0  sing  him  to  sleep  ! 


The  Departure  of  Summer 

Thomas  Hood 

•8 

SUMMER  is  gone  on  swallows'  wings, 
And  Earth  has  buried  all  her  flowers  : 
No  more  the  lark,  the  linnet  sings, 
But  Silence  sits  in  faded  bowers. 
There  is  a  shadow  on  the  plain 
Of  Winter  ere  he  comes  again  — 
There  is  in  woods  a  solemn  sound 
Of  hollow  warnings  whispered  round, 
As  Echo  in  her  deep  recess 
For  once  had  turned  a  prophetess. 
Shuddering  Autumn  stops  to  list, 
And  breathes  his  fear  in  sudden  sighs, 
With  clouded  face,  and  hazel  eyes 
That  quench  themselves,  and  hide  in  mist. 


fc  Vive  La  France 

Leigh  Mitchell  Hodges 


•<•>* 


THERE  may  be  a  greater  glory 

Hidden  somewhere  in  earth's  story 

Than  the  glory  that  is  shining  'round  the  head  of  France 
today, 

But  no  one  has  ever  told  it 

So  in  joy  we  may  behold  it 
As  the  finest  burst  of  glory  that  has  marked  the  human  way ! 

She  is  draining  out  her  life-blood 
That  the  crimson  walls  of  strife-flood 
Like  a  Red  Sea  canyon  closing  on  the  foes  of  man's  free 

sway 

May  entomb  the  wild  endeavor 
Of  the  Huns,  and  seal  forever 

All  the  vaunted  hopes  of  those  who  've  sought  to  darken 
Freedom's  day! 

Freely  emptying  such  measure 
Of  her  priceless  human  treasure 
That  the  rights  of  men  may  flourish  through  the  years 

that  yet  shall  be, 
In  the  face  of  loss  and  sorrow 
She  fights  on,  that  Earth  tomorrow) 

May  go  swinging  through  the  starry  spheres  to  shine  for 
liberty! 

0,  we  honor  and  adore  you 
And  our  hearts  and  hands  are  for  you 
And  in  years  to  come  we  'U  count  it  as  a  heaven-source  of 

pride, 

That  when  God  Almighty  crown'd  you 
With  the  victors'  hosts  around  you 

Some  of  us  were  standing  with  you  and  our  flags  were 
side  by  side! 

*  Copyright,  1917,  by  the  Author. 


Index  of  Titles 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 150 

Richard  L.  Johnson 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN    AT    GET- 
TYSBURG   115 

Harrison  D.  Mason 

AD  LIBROS 15 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 

AFOOT  AND  LIGHT-HEARTED. .  .130 
Walt  Whitman 

AGNOSTIC'S  CREED,  THE 1S6 

Walter  Malone 

ALMS...  ..  87 

Robert  Herrick 

APPEAL,  AN £8 

William  Bradford  Dickson 

ARMY  OF  BLEEDING  FEET,  THE  190 
Bartholomew  F.  Griffin 

AT  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S 

GRAVE 1S5 

Harrison  D.  Mason 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  EDGAR 

ALLAN  FOE 89 

Joseph  E.  Chase 

AURORA    BOREALIS 76 

Maurice  R.  Brown 


BACHELOR,    THE ..  85 

T.  N.  Hendricks 

BACK  TO  THE  MOTHER 158 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 

BALLADE  OF  JUSTICE 40 

Frank  Putnam 

BEAM  OF  LIGHT.  A 27 

John  Jerome  Rooney 

BELGIUM 44 

George  Grant  Morrison 

BLACK  RIDERS,  THE S6 

Stephen  Crane 

BOOMERANG,    THE 163 

Capt.  Jack  Crawford 

BOY  AND  A  GIRL,  A 77 

Irving  Browne 

BROTHERHOOD 1S8 

Edwin  Markham 

BUTTERFLY,  THE 118 

Cora  Bremer 

BY  THE  FOREST 175 

Herman  E.  Kittredge 


CALL  OF  THE  FOOTLIGHTS,  THE  1U 
Earle  Remington  Hines 

CALL  OF  THE  VAST,  THE 65 

Oscar  A.  Trippet 

CANDOR 147 

James  Ruttell  Lowell 

CAN  YOU  BLAME  HIM? 38 

BramleyKite 

CHATTER  OF  A  DEATH-DEMON, 

THE 10S 

Stephen  Crane 

CHRISTMASTIDE 96 

Frank  Henry  Doolittle 

CHURCH  BELLS 116 

Frank  Robbini 

CITY  INVINCIBLE,  THE 38 

Walt  Whitman 

CITY  OF  THE  LIGHT,  THE So 

Felix  Adler 

COLUMBUS 180 

Joaguin  Miller 

CONSECRATION 53 

A.  Francis  Trams 

CONSOLATION 113 

Joseph  Leiser 

CONVICT,    THE 159 

S.  Tyson  Kinsell 

CRY  OF  THE  CRAMMERS,  THE    34 
William  Hawley  Smith 

CRY  OF  THE  LITTLE  PEOPLES, 

THE 100 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


CYNARA. 


Ernest  Dowson 


96 


DAREDEVIL,  THE 106 

Richard  Wightman 

DAY  OF  THE  LORD,  THE 154 

Charles  Kingsley 

DAYS  THAT  ARE  TO  BE,  THE...  109 
John  Addington  Symonds 

DAY,   THE 


CALIFORNIA  POPPY,  THE 137 

Joaguin  Miller 


Henry  Chappell 

DEAD  POETS 189 

Walt  Whitman 

DEATH  AND  SLEEP 129 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

DEFEAT 157 

Joseph  Leiser 

DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER,  THE  193 
Thomas  Hood 


DESTINY 59 

David  Hoyle 

DREAM  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  GOD, 

A ISO 

Edwards  Davit 

DRUM-BEAT,     THE 31 

Edwin  Smalltceed 

EACH    SMALL    GLEAM    WAS    A 

VOICE 86 

Stephen  Crane 

EDUCATION 51 

Ernett  Crosby 

ELBERT  HVBBARD 90 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 

ELECTRICITY S3 

Arthur  Edward  Stilwell 

EMBRYO  CITIZEN,   THE 41 

Carl   Nelson 

EN  AVANT 19 

G.  Warren  London 

ENVY 15 

Edward  Porter 

EPITAPH  OF  A  PHILOSOPHER.. 142 

Edward  Sapir 

EQUALITY ISO 

Harriet  Martineau 

ETERNAL  QUEST,   THE 46 

James  Ball  Naylor 

EUROPE— 1914 00 

Mary  White  Slater 

EXISTENCE  ETERNAL 172 

S.  Tyson  Kinsell 

FAST  ASLEEP 55 

William  Hunter  Maxwell 

FELLER  WITH  THE  HOE,  THE..  74 

William  Colby  Cooper 

FIRE,    THE...  ...134 

Paul  Reps 

FOR  NINETY  YEARS 184 

Capt.  Jack  Crawford 

FOR    YOU 160 

Chester  Wood 

FREEDOM  OF  NA  TV  RE 106 

James  Thomson 

FRUITION ...102 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 


GREAT  LOVER,  THE 49 

Rupert  Brooke 

ORE  A  T  OBSESSION,  THE 104 

Bert  Letson  Taylor 


HARVESTS 06 

George  Lawrence  Andrews 

HEIGHTS    BY   GREAT    MEN 
REACHED  AND  KEPT,  THE... 173 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

HEROES  OF  THE  HOME 39 

Parker  H.  Sercombe 

HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG...  68 
Will  H.  Thompson 

HOPE! 168 

Helena  Bingham  Burton 

HOUSE  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE 

ROAD,  THE 18S 

Sam  Walter  Foss 

HYMN  OF  HATE,  THE 1S4 

Joseph  Dana  Miller 

IF  THIS  WERE  FAITH! 170 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

ILLUSION 63 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 

IMMORTALITY 00 

Joseph  Jefferson 

IMMORTALITY  OF  GERM-PLASM  10 
Milo  Hastings 

IMPRINT 14 

Laura  Raitz  Law 

IN  RE  VILLON 110 

John  D.  Swain 

IN  SCORN  OF  CONSEQUENCE. . .  .119 
Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

INVITA TION,    THE 183 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

I   WILL ..  18 

S.  E.  Riser 


JUST  DON'T! 48 

C.  L.  Armstrong 

KING'S  RIDE,  THE 160 

Milton   Murdoch 

KINSHIP ..  35 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 

LADDER  OF  TRUTH,  THE 70 

Ernest  Crosby 


V 


G.  BERNARD  SHAW 131 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 

GENESIS 48 

John  Hall  Ingham 

GIVE  US  MEN! 50 

Bishop  of  Exeter 

GOOD-BYE 16 

Herman  E.  Kittredge 

GOOD-NIGHT,    DADDY!.. 117 

George  Beebe 


LADY  POVERTY,  THE 191 

Jacob  Fischer 


LAUGH  IT  OFF 185 

Grenville  Kleiser 


LAWN-MOWER,    THE 131 

George  Frederick  Gundelfinger 


LAW  OF  LIFE,  THE Ifl 

James  Ball  Naylor 


LEAF  AFTER  LEAF  DROPS  OFF.  86 
Walter  Savage  Landor 

LEETLE  BA  TEESE 54 

Dr.  W.  II.  Drummond 

LIBERTY 135 

Joseph  Addison 

LIFE 47 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld 

LIFE  AND  DEATH 87 

Ernest  Crosby 

LIFE'S   MYSTERIES...  ...149 

W.  F.  McCaleb 

LIGHT  AND  LIFE 107 

Joseph  Blanco  White 

LITTLE  MITES  AND  THE 

ALMIGHTY 144 

Homer  Hyde 

LIVING   DEATH 43 

John  E.  Nordquist 

MAN  HIS  OWN  STAR. ..  ..83 

J.  Fletcher 

MANIAC'S  COMPLAINT,  THE...  73 
Stephen  Crane 

MARTIAL   MUSIC 103 

Coral  Thomas 

MARY  MAGDALEN. ..  ,.  .189 

W.  F.  McCaleb 

MAY  IDYL,  A 39 

Milton    Murdock 

MEMORY  AND  HOPE 1S8 

Thomas  Moore 

MILLIONAIRE,  THE 91 

George  P.  Bent 

MOCKINGBIRD,  THE 14 

Ednah  Proctor  (Clarke)  Hayes 

MOCKINGBIRD,   THE 777 

Sidney  Lanier 

MORE  KINDNESS  NEEDED 145 

Albert  Ferguson 

"  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS  " 92 

r  Ernest  Crosby 

MORNING 755 

Arthur  Royce  MacDonald 

MY  BRAVE  WORLD-BUILDERS.  .133 
Joaquin  Miller 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP 82 

William  Wordsworth 

MYRRH...  ..  75 

AdeWert  Clark 

MY  STAR 146 

Robert  Browning 

MYSTERY 27 

Jerome  B.  Bell 


NATURE'S  FOUNDLINGS 106 

James  Harcourt  West 

NEW- YEAR  POEM,  A 136 

Capt.  Jack  Crawford 

NIGHT  AND  WANING  DAY 24 

Cora  Bremer 

NIGHT  HAS  A  THOUSAND  EYES, 

THE 155 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon 

NOW  I  UNDERSTAND si 

Ernest  Crosby 


MY   WIFE 

William  J  Dawson 

MY  WORK. 


.108 


Henry  Van  Dyke 


OFF  KINSALE 39 

Bartholomew  F.  Griffin 

0  FRIEND 59 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

0  GOD  OF  WRATH...  67 

Edward  H.  S.  Terry 

OLD  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL,  THE    84 
Adelbert  Clark 

OLD  NATIONAL  ROAD,   THE.... 176 
F.  M.  Zehliman 

OLD  SAYIN'  OF  MOTHER'S,  AN.  .132 
John  D.  Wells 

ONIONS 187 

Frederic  Cooke  Nelson 

OPPORTUNITY. .  62 

William  H.  Eddy 

OPPORTUNITY 6S 

John  J.  Ingalls 

OUR  HOPE 83 

John  Leonard  Conrad 

OUT— OUT  ARE  THE  LIGHTS.  ...58 
Edgar  Allan  Poe 


PEACE 64 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

PEAKS  OF  THE  IDEAL,  THE.  ...90 
Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke 

PEASANT  SOLDIER,   THE 166 

James  J.  Montague 

PERSEVERA  AD  VICTORIAM.  ...153 
Edwin  Leibfreed 

PHYLLIS 57 

Eric  A.  Darling 

PICKETT'S    CHARGE 78 

Fred  Emerson  Brooks 

PLAY  THE  GAME! 45 

Henry  Newbolt 

POCHADES 52 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole 

POVERTY 188 

George  W.  Stevens 

PRAYER,  A 148 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 

PRAYER,  A 71 

Thaddeui  B.  Wakeman 


PRAYER  IN  TIME  OF  WAR,  A..  169 

Alfred  Noyea 

PRAYER  OF  WOMEN,  THE  ......  174 

Fiona  McLeod 

PRISONER'S  LAMENT,  THE  .....  135 
John  Francii  Glynn 

PRISON  SONG  ...................  82 

John  Carter 

PUNISHMENT  ...................  30 

Julian  Hawthorne 


REPUTATION  ...................  HO 

William  Shakespeare 

REQUIEM  .......................  149 

Robert  Louit  Stetenson 

RHYMES  IN  TIME  OF  AGITA- 
TION ..........................  138 

William  Griffith 

ROSEMOTHER  ...................  179 

Marie  Louiae  Emenon 

ROSE  TO  THE  LIVING,  A  ........  163 

Nixon  Waterman 

ROWENA  ........................  60 

Martha  C.  Schwartz 

SCIENTIST  SPEAKS,  THE  .......  07 

Charles  Henry  Mackintosh 

SEA,    THE  .......................  93 

Cora  Bremer 

SEA,    THE  .......................  U9 

William  Harold  Martin 

SING  HIM  TO  SLEEP.  ..  ...192 

Carl  Nelson 

SOLDIERS'  FACES  ...............  114 

Mrs.  A.  J.  Tollman 

SONG  OF  THE  CITY,  THE  .......  178 

Chester  Wood 

SONG  OF  THE  SHIPS..  .  ..36 

Clinton  Scollard 

SONNET,  A  ......................  171 

Arthur  E.  Luedy 

SPACE...  ...186 

Oscar  Schleif 

SPREAD  OUT!  ........  ...........  94 

Eric  A.  Darling 

SPRING  ..........................  66 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

STARS  ...........................  107 

Lord  Byron 

STENOGS  ........................  98 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 

"  STEV1E  "  CRANE  ..............  147 

Earle  Remington  Hines 

SUMMER  ........................  119 

Carl  Nelson 

SUN  SPEAKS,  THE.  ..  ...........  123 

Samuel  Quinn 

SUPREME  MANIFESTO,  THE...  156 
Orlando  W.  Kinne 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH 164 

J.  L.  McCreary 

TIES  FRA  TERNAL,  THE 103 

George  Beebe 

TO  A  CLOCK 99 

Kate  Alexander  Lentz 

TO  JOAQUIN  MILLER 181 

Frances  V.  Barton 

TOLSTOY 118 

Henry  S.  Saxe 

TO  THE  JERSEY  LILY 114 

Joaquin  Miller 

TRUE  PATHOS,  THE 109 

Robert  Burnt 

TRUTH 137 

Ernest  Crosby 


VICTORY  ........................  11 

Humphrey  M.  Bourne 

VIEWLESS  THING  IS  THE  WIND, 
A  .............................. 


49 


Richard  Burton 


"  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  "  ............  194 

Leigh  Mitchell  Hodges 


WAR. 


George  Beebe 


71 


WAY  AND  THE  END,  THE 146 

Ernest  Crosby 

WE  LIVE  IN  DEEDS 70 

Philip  James  Bailey 

WHAT  WOULD  HE  SAY? 38 

David  Banks  Sickels 

WHEN  GOD  NODS 143 

Frederic  Bonn 

WHEN  KREISLER  PL  A  YED 141 

Nathaniel  Ferguson 

WHEN  WILT  THOU  SAVE   THE 

PEOPLE? 66 

Ebenezer  Elliott 

WHERE  ART  THOU,  GOD?. ......  58 

David  Dillard  Haggard 

WHO  FIRST  DRAW  SWORD 11,0 

Max  Ehrmann 

WINGS ien 

Charlton  Lawrence  Edholm 

WINTER    WIND 17 

George  Lawrence  Andrews 

WITH  ALL  THY  GIFTS 81 

Walt  Whitman 

WORK  THOU  FOR  PLEASURE. .  .161 

Kenyan  Cox 

WORLD  TO  THE  POET,  THE 73 

Julia  Ditto  Young 

WORSHIP...  ...167 

Hugh  Robert  On 


\ 

k 

n> 


So  here  then  endeth 
A  ROYCROFT  ANTHOLOGY 

a  book  of  verse 

purporting  to  set  forth 

Roy  croft  ideals 


Gathered  together 

by 

John  T.  Hoyle 
and  done  with  much  joy 

into  a  book  by 
Charles  J.  Rosen,  Axel  Edward  Sahlin 

and 

Charles  Younger s 
Craftsmen  at  the  Roycroft  Shops 

which  are  in 

East  Aurora,  Erie  County 
New  York 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000140837     6 


9Q29[d 
pai/nort 

"    I  aaqm  scu 


t: 


•  S 


